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THE DANGEROUS AGE 




















THE 
DANGEROUS AGE 








LETTERS AND FRAGMENTS FROM 
A WOMAN’S DIARY OH OH WH 
TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH 
OF KARIN MICHAELIS © WH 




















NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY. MCMXI 














COPYRIGHT, I9gII, BY 
JOHN LANE COMPANY 


JUN 23 “41 PSYCHOLOGY 


7 BOOKHUNTERS 


TO 
My DEAR BROTHER-IN-LAW 


BARON YOOST DAHLERUP 


3'°7820 


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THE DANGEROUS AGE > 





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INTRODUCTION 


TO THE FRENCH EDITION 
By MARCEL PREVOST 





ERE isa strange book. A novel from 
the North, its solid structure, its clear, 
unadorned form are purely Latin. A 

woman’s novel, in its integral and violent 
sincerity it can only be compared to certain 
famous masculine confessions. 

The author, Karin Michaélis, a Dane, is not 
at all known in France. The Dangerous Age 
is not her first book; but it is, I feel sure, the 
first that has been translated into French. 
Naturally enough the Danish-Scandinavian 
literature is transmitted in the first instance 
through newspapers and reviews, and through 
German publishers. This is the result of local 
proximity and the affinity of language. Sev- 
eral novels by Karin Michaélis were known 
to the German public before The Dangerous 
Age; but none of them had awakened the same 

: 3 


INTRODUCTION 


keen curiosity, provoked such discussion, or 
won such success as this book. In all the 
countries of Central Europe the most widely 
read novel at the present moment is The 
Dangerous Age. Edition succeeds edition, 
and the fortune of the book has been increased 
by the quarrels it has provoked; for it has been 
much discussed and criticised, not on account 
of its literary value, which is incontestable, 
but because of the idea which animates it. 
Shall I confess that it was just this great 
success, and the polemical renown of the novel, 
that roused my suspicions when first I chanced 
to see the German version of it? Contrary to 
the reputation which our neighbours on the 
other side of the Vosges like to foist upon us, 
French literature, at the present day, is far less 
noisily scandalous than their own. It is only 
necessary to glance over the advertisements 
which certain German publishing firms issue 
at the end of their publications in order to be 
convinced of this. It is amusing to find every 
kind of “puff” couched in the exaggerated 
style which the modern German affects. 


It was with some bias and suspicion, there- 
10 


INTRODUCTION 


fore, that I took up Das gefahrliche Alter. 
When I started to read the book, nothing could 
have been further from my mind than to write 
a French version and to present it myself to 
the public. This is all the more reason why 
justice should be done to Karin Michaélis. I 
have read no other book of hers except The 
Dangerous Age, but in this novel she has in no 
way exceeded what a sincere and serious ob- 
server has a right to publish. Undoubtedly 
her book is not intended for young girls, for 
what the English call “bread-and-butter 
misses.”” But nobody is compelled to write 
exclusively for schoolgirls, and it has yet to 
be proved that there is any necessity to feed 
them on fiction as well as on bread and but- 
ter. 

The Dangerous Age deals with a bold sub- 
ject; it is a novel filled with the “strong meat” 
of human nature; a novel which speaks in 
accents at once painful and ironical, and ends 
in despair; but it is also a book to which the 
most scrupulous author on the question of 
“the right to speak out” need not hesitate to at- 


tach his name. 
II 


INTRODUCTION. 


It is difficult for one who knows no Danish, 
to judge of its literary value; and that is my 
case. In the German version—and I hope 
also in the French—the reader will not fail to 
discern some of the novelist’s finest gifts. In 
the first instance, there is that firmness and 
solidity of structure which is particularly diffi- 
cult to keep up when a book takes the form of 
a journal, of jottings and meditations, as does 
The Dangerous Age. Then there are the 
depth of reflection, the ingenuity of the argu- 
ments, the muscular brevity of style, the ex- 
pression being closely modelled upon the 
thought; nothing is vague, but nothing is su- 
perfluous. We must not seek in this volume 
for picturesque landscape painting, for the 
lyrical note, for the complacently woven “pur- 
ple patch.” The book is rigorously deprived 
of all these things; and, having regard to its 
subject, this is not its least merit. 


* 
* * 


When a woman entitles a book The Danger- 
ous Age we may feel sure she does not intend 
to write of the dangers of early youth. The 

12 


INTRODUCTION 


dangerous age described by Karin Michaélis 
is precisely that time of life which inspired 
Octave Feuillet to write the novel, half-dia- 
logue, half-journal, which appeared in the 
Revue des Deux Mondes in 1848, was adapted 
for the stage, played at the Gymnase in 1854, 
and reproduced later with some success at the 
Comédie-Frangaise—I mean the work en- 
titled La Crise. 

It is curious to compare the two books, 
partly on account of the long space of time 
which separates them, and partly because of 
the different way in which the two writers 
treat the same theme. 

Octave Feuillet, be it remembered, only 
wrote what might be spoken aloud in the most 
conventional society. Nevertheless those who 
think the author of Monsieur de Camors timid 
and insipid are only short-sighted critics. I 
advise my readers when they have finished the 
last page of The Dangerous Age to re-read La 
Crise. They will observe many points of re- 
semblance, notably in the “journal” portion 
of the latter. Juliette, Feuillet’s heroine, thus 
expresses herself: 

13 


INTRODUCTION. 


“What name can I give to this moral dis- 
comfort, this distaste for my former habits, 
this aimless restlessness and discontent with © 
myself and others, of which I have been con- 
scious during the last few months? ... I 
have taken it into my head to hate the trinkets 
on my husband’s watchchain. We lived to- 
gether in peace for ten years, those trinkets 
and I.... Now, I don’t know why, we 
have suddenly fallen out. . . .” 

These words from La Crise contain the 
argument of The Dangerous Age. 

And yet I will wager that Karin Michaélis 
never read La Crise. Had she read it, how- 
ever, her book would still have remained all 
her own, by reason of her individual treat- 
ment of a subject that is also a dangerous one. 
We have made considerable advances since 
1848. Even in Denmark physiology now 
plays a large part in literature. Feuillet did 
not venture to do more than to make his Juliet 
experience temptation from a medical lover, 
who is a contrast to her magistrate husband. 
Although doctors come off rather badly in 
The Dangerous Age, the book owes much to 

14 


INTRODUCTION 


them and to medical science. Much; per- 
haps too much. If this woman’s work had 
been imagined and created by a man, no doubt 
he would have been accused of having lost 
sight of women’s repugnance to speak or write 
of their physical inferiority, or even to dwell 
upon it in thought. Yet the name Karin 
Michaélis is no pseudonym; the writer really 
is of the same sex as her heroine Elsie 
Lindtner. 

Is not this an added reason for the curiosity 
which this book awakens? The most sincere 
and complete, the humblest and most moving 
of feminine confessions proceeds from one of 
those Northern women, whom we Latin races 
are pleased to imagine as types of immaterial 
candour, sovereign ‘“intellectuality,’ and 
glacial temperament—souls in harmony with 
their natural surroundings, the rigid pine for- 
ests and snow-draped heathlands of Scan- 
dinavia. 

A Scandinavian woman! Immediately the 
words evoke the chaste vision sung by Leconte 
de Lisle, in his poem “l’Epiphanie”’: 


15 j 


INTRODUCTION 


Elle passe, tranquille, en un réve divin, 

Sur le bord du plus frais de tes lacs, 6 Norvege! 
Le sang rose et subtil qui dore son col fin 

Est doux comme un rayon de l’aube sur la neige. 


Quand un souffle furtif glisse en ses cheveux blonds, 
Une cendre ineffable inonde son épaule, 

Et, de leur transparence argentant leurs cils longs, 
Ses yeux ont la couleur des belle nuits du pdle. 


Et le gardien pensif du mystique oranger 
Des balcons de l|’Aurore eternelle se penche, 
Et regarde passer ce fantome léger 
Dans les plis de sa robe immortellement blanche. 


“Immortellement blanche!’ Very white 
indeed! . . . Read the intimate journal of El- 
sie Lindther, written precisely by the side of 
one of these fresh Northern lakes. Possibly 
at eighteen Elsie Lindtner may have played at 
“Epiphanies” and filled “the pensive guardian 
of the mystic orange tree” with admiration. 
But it is at forty-two that she begins to edit 
her private diary, and her eyes that “match 
the hue of polar nights” have seen a good deal 
in the course of those twenty years. And if 
in the eyes of the law she has remained strictly 
faithful to her marriage vows, she has judged 


herself in the secret depths of her heart. She 
16 


INTRODUCTION 


has also judged other women, her friends 
and confidants. The moment of “the crisis” 
arrives, and, taking refuge in “a savage 
solitude,” in which even the sight of a male 
servant is hateful to her, she sets down with 
disconcerting lucidity all she has observed 
in other women, and in herself. These 
other women are also of the North: Lillie 
Rothe, Agatha Ussing, Astrid Bagge, 
Margarethe Ernst, Magna Wellmann. . 

Her memory invokes them all, and they reap- 
pear. We seem to take part in a strange, 
painful revel; a witches’ revel of ardent yet 
withered sorceresses; a revel in which the 
modern demons of Neurasthenia and Hysteria 


sport and sneer. 


* 
* * 


Let us not be mistaken, however. Elsie 
Lindtner’s confession is not merely to be 
weighed by its fierce physiological sincerity; 
it is the feminine soul, and the feminine soul of 
all time, that is revealed in this extraordinary 
document. I think nothing less would give 
out such a pungent odour of truth. The 

17 


INTRODUCTION 


Dangerous Age contains pages dealing with 
women’s smiles and tears, with their love of 
dress and desire to please, and with the social 
relations between themselves and the male sex; 
which will certainly irritate some feminine 
readers. Let them try to unravel the real 
cause of their annoyance: perhaps they will 
perceive that they are actually vexed because 
a woman has betrayed the freemasonry that 
exists among their own sex. We must add 
that we are dealing here with another nation, 
and every Frenchwoman may, if she choose, 
decline to recognise herself among these por- 
traits from Northern Europe. 

A sure diagnosis of the vital conditions un- 
der which woman exists, and an acute observa- 
tion of her complicated soul—these two things 
alone would suffice, would they not, to recom- 
mend the novel in which they were to be 
found? But The Dangerous Age possesses 
another quality which, at first sight, seems to 
have no connection with the foregoing: it is 
by no means lacking in emotion. Notwith- 
standing that she has the eye of the doctor 
and the psychologist, Elsie Lindtner, the 

18 


INTRODUCTION, 


heroine, has also the nerves and sensibility of 
a woman. Her daring powers of analysis do 
not save her from moments of mysterious ter- 
ror, such as came over her, for no particular 
reason, on a foggy evening; nor yet from the 
sense of being utterly happy—equally without 
reason—on a certain autumn night; nor from 
feeling an intense sensuous pleasure in letting 
the little pebbles on the beach slide between 
her fingers. In a word, all the harshness of 
her judgments and reflections do not save 
her from the dreadful distress of growing 
Old. i 

In vain she withdraws from the society of 
Ker fellow-creatures, in the hope that old age 
will no longer have terrors for her when there 
is no one at hand to watch her physical decay; 
the redoubtable phantom still haunts her in 
her retreat; watches her, brushes past her, and 
mocks her sincere effort to abandon all co- 
-quetry and cease “to count as a woman.” At 
the same time a cruel melancholia possesses 
her; she feels she has become old without hav- 
ing profited by her youth. Not that she de- 
scends to the coarse and libertine regrets of 

19 


j 


INTRODUCTION 


“grand’mére” in Béranger’s song, ““Ah! que je 
regrette!” Elsie Lindtner declares more than 
once that if she had to start life over again she 
would be just as irreproachable. But the 
nearer she gets to the crisis, the more painfully 
and lucidly she perceives the antinomy be- 
tween two feminine desires: the desire of 
moral dignity and the desire of physical enjoy- 
ment. In a woman of her temperament this 
need of moral dignity becomes increasingly 
imperious the more men harass her with their 
desires—an admirable piece of observation 
which I believe to be quite new. Moral re- 
sistance becomes weaker in proportion as the 
insistent passion of men becomes rarer and less 
active. She will end by yielding entirely when 
men cease to find her desirable. Then, even 
the most honourable of women, finding herself 
no longer desired, will perhaps lose the sense 
of her dignity so far as to send out a despair- 
ing appeal to the companion who is fleeing 
from her... . 

Such is the inward conflict which forms the 
subject of The Dangerous Age. It must be 

20 


INTRODUCTION 


conceded that it lacks neither greatness nor 


human interest. 


* 
% * 


I wish to add a few lines in order to record 
here an impression which I experienced while 
reading the very first pages of The Dangerous 
Age; an impression that became deeper and 
clearer when I had closed the book. 

The Dangerous Age is one of those rare 
novels by a woman in which the writer has not 
troubled to think from a man’s point of view. 
I lay stress upon this peculiarity because it is 
very rare, especially among the contemporary 
works of Frenchwomen. 

The majority of our French authoresses 
give us novels in which their ambition to think, 
to construct and to write in a masculine style 
is clearly perceptible. And nothing, I im- 
agine, gives them greater pleasure than when, 
thanks to their pseudonyms, their readers ac- 
tually take them for men writers. 

Therefore all this mass of feminine litera- 


ture in France, with three or four exceptions 
21 


INTRODUCTION 


—all this mass of literature of which I am far 
from denying the merits—has really told us 
nothing new about the soul of woman. A 
strange result is that not a single woman writer 
of the present day is known as a specialist in 
feminine psychology. 

Karin Michaélis has been inspired to write a 
study of womankind without trying to inter- 
pose between her thought and the paper the 
mind and vision of a man. The outcome is 
astonishing. I have said that the construction 
of the novel is solid; but no man could have 
built it up in that way. It moves to a definite 
goal by a sure path; yet its style is variable 
like the ways of every woman, even if she be 
completely mistress of herself... . Thus 
her flights of thought, like carrier-pigeons, 
never fail to reach their end, although at times 
they circle and hover as though troubled by 
some mysterious hesitancy or temptation to 
turn back from their course... . 

Elsie Lindtner’s journal shows us many ex- 
amples of these circling flights and retro- 
gressions. Sometimes too we observe a gap, 


an empty space, in which words and ideas 
22 


INTRODUCTION 


seem to have failed. Again, there are sudden 
leaps from one subject to another, the true 
thought appearing, notwithstanding, beneath 
the artificial thought which is written down. 
Sometimes there comes an abrupt and painful 
pause, as though somebody walking absent- 
mindedly along the road found themselves 
brought up by a yawning cleft... . 

This cinematograph of feminine thought, 
stubborn yet disconnected, is to my mind the 
principal literary merit of the book; more so 
even than its strength and brevity of style. 


* 
* * 


For all these reasons, it seemed to me that 
The Dangerous Age was worthy to be pre- 
sented to the public in a French translation. 
The Revue de Paris also thought it worthy to 
be published in its pages. I shall be aston- 
ished if French readers do not confirm this 
twofold judgment, offering to this foreign 
novel the same favourable reception that has 
already been accorded to it outside its little 


native land. 
MARCEL PREVOST. 


23 


5) 











The Dangerous Age 


Y DEAR LILLIE, 
M Obviously it would have been the 


right thing to give you my news in 
person—apart from the fact that I should then 
have enjoyed the amusing spectacle of your 
horror! But I could not make up my mind 
to this course. 

All the same, upon my word of honour, you, 
dear innocent soul, are the only person to 
whom I have made any direct communication 
on the subject. It is at once your great virtue 
and defect that you find everything that every- 
body does quite right and reasonable—you, 
the wife eternally in love with her husband; 
eternally watching over your children like a 
brood-hen. 

You are really virtuous, Lillie. But I may 
add that you have no reason for being any- 
thing else. For you, life is like a long and 

25 





THE DANGEROUS AGE 


pleasant day spent in a hammock under a 
shady tree—your husband at the head and 
your children at the foot of your couch. 

You ought to have been a mother stork, 
dwelling in an old cart-wheel on the roof of 
some peasant’s cottage. 

For you, life is fair and sweet, and all 
humanity angelic. Your relations with the 
outer world are calm and equable, without 
temptation to any passions but such as are 
perfectly legal. At eighty you will still be 
the virtuous mate of your husband. 

Don’t you see that I envy you? Not on 
account of your husband—you may keep him 
and welcome! Not on account of your lanky 
maypoles of daughters—for I have not the 
least wish to be five times running a mother- 
in-law, a fate which will probably overtake 
you. No! I envy your superb balance and 
your imperturbable joy in life. 

I am out of sorts to-day. We have dined 
out twice running, and you know I cannot 
endure too much light and racket. 

We shall meet no more, you and I. How 


strange it will seem. We had so much in 
26 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


cemmon besides our portly dressmaker and 
our masseuse with her shiny, greasy hands! 
Well, anyhow, let us be thankful to the mas- 
seuse for our slender hips. 

I shall miss you. Wherever you were, the 
atmosphere was cordial. Even on the summit 
of the Blocksberg, the chillest, barest spot on 
earth, you would impart some warmth. 

Lillie Rothe, dear cousin, do not have a fit 
on reading my news: Richard and I are going 
to be divorced. 

Or rather, we are divorced. 

Thanks to the kindly intervention of the 
Minister of Justice, the affair was managed 
quickly and without fuss, as you see. After 
twenty-two years of married life, almost as 
exemplary as your own, we are going our 
separate ways. 3 

You are crying, Lillie, because you are such 
a kind, heaven-sent, tender-hearted creature. 
But spare your tears. You are really fond of 
me, and when I tell you that all has happened 
for the best, you will believe me, and dry your 
eyes. 

There is no special reason for our divorce. 

27 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


None at least that is palpable, or explicable, 
to the world. As far as I know, Richard has 
no entanglements; and I have no _ lover. 
Neither have we lost our wits, nor become re- 
ligious maniacs. ‘There is no shadow of scan- 
dal connected with our separation beyond that 
which must inevitably arise when two middle- 
aged partners throw down the cards in the 
middle of the rubber. 

It has cost my vanity a fierce struggle. I, 
who made it such a point of honour to live 
unassailable and pass as irreproachable. I, 
who am mortally afraid of the judgment of 
my fellow creatures—to let loose the gossips’ 
tongues in this way! 

I, who have always maintained that the 
most wretched ménage was better than none at 
all, and that an unmarried or divorced woman 
had no right to expect more than the semi- 
existence of a Pariah! I, who thought di- 
vorce between any but a very young couple an 
unpardonable folly! Here am I, breaking a 
union that has been completely harmonious 


and happy! 
28 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


You will begin to realize, dear Lillie, that 
this is a serious matter. | 

For a whole year I delayed taking the final 
step; and if I hesitated so long before realiz- 
ing my intention, it was partly in order to test 
my own feelings, and partly for practical rea- 
sons; for I am practical, and I could not fancy 
myself leaving my house in the Old Market 
Place without knowing where I was going 
to. 

My real reason is so simple and clear that 
few will be content to accept it. But I have 
no other, so what am I to do? 

You know, like the rest of the world, that 
Richard and I have got on as well as any two 
people of opposite sex ever can do. There 
has never been an angry word between us. 
But one day the impulse—or whatever you 
like to call it—took possession of me that I 
must live alone—quite alone and all to myself. 
Call it an absurd idea, an impossible fancy; 
call it hysteria—which perhaps it is—I must 
get right away from everybody and every- 
thing. 

29 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


It is a blow to Richard, but I hope he will 
soon get over it. In the long run his factory 
will make up for my loss. 

We concealed the business very nicely. 
The garden party we gave last week was a 
kind of “farewell performance.” Did you 
suspect anything at all? We are people of 
the world and know how to play the game 

a 

If I am leaving to-night, it is not altogether 
because I want to be “over the hills” before 
the scandal leaks out, but because I have an 
indescribable longing for solitude. 

Joergen Malthe has planned and built a 
little villa for me—without having the least 
idea I was to be the occupant. 

The house is on an island, the name of 
which I will keep to myself for the present. 
The rooms are fourteen feet high, and the din- 
ing-room can hold thirty-six guests. There 
are only two reception-rooms. But what 
more could a divorced woman of my age re- 
quire? The rest of the house—the upper 
storey—consists of smaller rooms, with bay- 


windows and balconies. My bedroom, iso- 
30 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


lated from all the others, has a glass roof, like 
a studio. Another of my queer notions is 
to be able to look up from my bed and see 
the sky above me. I think it is good for 
the nerves, and mine are in a terrible condi- 
tion. 

So in future, having no dear men, I can 
flirt with the little stars in God’s heaven. 

Moreover, my villa is remarkable for its 
beautiful situation, its fortress-like architec- 
ture, and—please make a note of this—its 
splendid inhospitality. The garden hedge 
which encloses it is as high as the wall of 
the women’s penitentiary at Christianshafen. 
The gates are never open, and there is no 
lodge-keeper. The forest adjoins the garden, 
and the garden runs down to the water’s edge. 
The original owner of the estate was a crank 
who lived in a hut, which was so overgrown 
with moss and creepers that I did not pull it 
down. Never in my life has anything given 
me such delight as the anticipation of this 
hermit-like existence. At the same time, I 
have engaged a first-rate cook, called Torp, 
who seems to have the cookery of every coun- 

31 


YI 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


try as pat as the Lord’s Prayer. I have no 
intention of living upon bread and water and 
virtue. 

I shall manage without a footman, although 
I have rather a weakness for menservants. 
But my income will not permit of such 
luxuries; or rather I have no idea how far my 
money will go. I should not care to accept 
Richard’s generous offer to make me a yearly 
allowance. 

I have also engaged a housemaid, whose 
name is Jeanne. She has the most wonderful 
amber-coloured eyes, flaming red hair, and 
long, pointed fingers, so well kept that I can- 
not help wondering where she got them from. 
Torp and Jeanne will make the sum-total of 
my society, so that I shall have every op- 
portunity of living upon my own inner re- 
sources, 

Dear Lillie, do all you can to put a stop to 
the worst and most disgusting gossip, now you 
know the true circumstances of the case. One 
more thing, in profound confidence, and on 
the understanding that you will not say a word 
about it to my husband: Joergen Malthe, dear 

32 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


fellow, formerly honoured me with his youth- 
ful affections—as you all knew, to your great 
amusement. Probably, like a true man, he 
will be quite frantic when he hears of my 
strange retirement. Be a little kind and 
friendly to the poor boy, and make him under- 
stand that there is no mystical reason for my 
departure. 

Later on, when I have had time to rest a 
little, I shall be delighted to hear from you; 
although I foresee that five-sixths of the letters 
will be about your children, and the remain- 
ing sixth devoted to your husband—whereas 
I would rather it was all about yourself, and 
our dear town, with its life and strife. I have 
not taken the veil; I may still endure to hear 
echoes of all the town gossip. | 

If you were here, you would ask what | 
proposed to do with myself. Well, dear Lil- 
lie, I have not left my frocks nor my mirror 
behind me. Moreover, time has this wonder- 
ful property that, unlike the clocks, it goes of 
itself without having to be wound up. I have 
the sea, the forest; my piano, and my house. 
If time really hangs heavy on my hands, there 

ie 33 a) 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


is no reason why I should not darn the linen 
for Torp! 

Should it happen by any chance—which 
God forbid—that I were struck dead by light- 
ning, or succumbed to a heart attack, would 
you, acting as my cousin, and closest friend, 
undertake to put my belongings in order? 
Not that you would find things in actual dis- 
order; but all the same there would be a kind 
of semi-order. I do not at all fancy the idea 
of Richard routing among my papers now that 
we are no longer a married couple. 

With every good wish, 

Your cousin, 
ELSIE LINDTNER. 


Y DEAR, KIND FRIEND, AND FORMER 
HUSBAND, 


Is there not a good deal of style 
about that form of address? Were you not 
deeply touched at receiving, in a strange town, 
flowers sent by a lady? If only the people 
understood my German and sent them to you 
in time! 

For an instant a beautiful thought flashed 
through my mind: to welcome you in this 
way in every town where you have to stay. 
But since I only know the addresses of one or 
two florists in the capitals, and I am too lazy 
to find out the others, I have given up this 
splendid folly, and simply note it to my ac- 
count as a “might-have-been.” 

Shall I be quite frank, Richard? I am 
rather ashamed when I think of you, and I can 
honestly say that I never respected you more 
than to-day. But it could not have been 
otherwise. I want you to concentrate all your 
will-power to convince yourself of this. If 
J had let myself be persuaded to remain with 

35 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


you, after this great need for solitude had laid 
hold upon me, I should have worried and tor- 
mented you every hour of the day. 

Dearest and best friend, there is some truth 
in these words, spoken by I know not whom: 
“Fither a woman is made for marriage, and 
then it practically does not matter to whom 
she is married, she will soon understand how 
to fulfil her destiny; or she is unsuited to 
matrimony, in which case she commits a crime 
against her own personality when she binds 
herself to any man.” 

Apparently, I was not meant for married 
life. Otherwise I should have lived happily 
for ever and a day with you—and you know 
that was not the case. But you are not to 
blame. I wish in my heart of hearts that I 
had something to reproach you with—but I 
have nothing against you of any sort or kind. 

It was a great mistake—a cowardly act—to 
promise you yesterday that I would return 
if I regretted my decision. I know I shall 
never regret it. But in making such a prom- 
ise I am directly hindering you. .. . For- 


give me, dear friend .. . but it is not im- 
36 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


possible that you may some day meet a 
woman who could become something to you. 
Will you let me take back my promise? I 
shall be grateful to you. Then only can I feel 
myself really free. 

When you return home, stand firm if your 
friends overwhelm you with questions and 
sympathy. I should be deeply humiliated if 
anyone—no matter who—were to pry into the 
good and bad times we have shared together. 
Bygones are bygones, and no one can actually 
realise what takes place between two human 
beings, even when they have been onlookers. 

Think of me when you sit down to dinner. 
Henceforward eight o’clock will probably be 
my bedtime. On the other hand [ shall rise 
with the sun, or perhaps earlier. Think of 
me, but do not write too often. I must first 
settle down tranquilly to my new life. Later 
on, I shall enjoy writing you a condensed ac- 
count of all the follies which can be committed 
by. a woman who suddenly finds herself at a 
mature age complete mistress of her actions. 

Follow my advice, offered for the twentieth 
time: go on seeing your friends; you cannot 

37 


377830 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


do without them. Really there is no need for 
you to mourn for a year with crape on the 
chandeliers and immortelles around my por- 
trait. 

You have been a kind, faithful, and deli- 
cate-minded friend to me, and I am not so 
lacking in delicacy myself that I do not ap- 
preciate this in my inmost heart. But I can- 
not accept your generous offer to give me 
money. I now tell you this for the first time, 
because, had I said so before, you would have 
done your best to over-persuade me. My 
small income is, and will be, sufficient for my 
needs. 

The train leaves in an hour. Richard, you 
have your business and your friends—more 
friends than anyone I know. If you wish me 
well, wish that I may never regret the step 
I have taken. I look down at my hands that 
you loved—I wish I could stretch them out to 
Os 5’ 6% 

A man must not let himself be crushed. It 
would hurt me to feel that people pitied you. 
You are much toe good to be pitied. 


Certainly it would have been better if, as 
38 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


you said, one of us had died. But in that case 
you would have had to take the plunge inw 
eternity, for I am looking forward with joy 
to life on my island. 

For twenty years I have lived under the 
- shadow of your wing in the Old Market Place. 
May I live another twenty under the great 
forest trees, wedded to solitude. 

How the gossips will gossip! But we two, 
clever people, will laugh at their gossip. 

Forgive me, Richard, to-day and always, 
the trouble I have brought upon you. I 
would have stayed with you if I could. 
Thank you for all... . 

ELSIE. 


That my feeling for you should have died, 
is quite as incomprehensible to me as to you. 
No other man has ever claimed a corner of 
my heart. In a word, having considered the 
question all round, I am suffering simply from 
a nervous malady—alas! it is incurable! 


39 ) 


Y DEAR MALTHE, 

We two are friends, are we not, 

and I think we shall always remain 

so, even now that fate has severed our ways? 

If you feel that you have any good reason for 

being angry with me now, then, indeed, our 

friendship will be broken; for we shall have 

no further opportunity of becoming recon- 
ciled. 

If at this important juncture I not only hid 
the truth from you, but deliberately misled 
you, it was not from any lack of confidence in 
you, or with the wish to be unfriendly. I 
beg you to believe this. The fact that I can- 
not even now explain to you my reasons for 
acting thus makes it all the more difficult to 
justify my conduct to you. Therefore you 
must be contented to take my word for it. 
Joergen Malthe, I would gladly confide in 
you, but it is impossible. Call it madness, or 
what you will, but I cannot allow any human 
being to penetrate my inner life. 

40 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


You will not have forgotten that September 
evening last year, when I spoke to you for the 
first time about one of my friends who was 
going to separate from her husband, and who, 
through my intervention, asked you to draw 
the plan of a villa in which she might spend 
the rest of her days in solitude? You entered 
so completely into this idea of a solitary 
retreat that your plan was almost perfect. 
Every time we met last year we talked about 
the “White Villa,” as we called it, and it 
pleased us to share this little secret together. 
Nor were you less interested in the interior of 
the house; in making sketches for the furni- 
ture, and arranging the decorations. You 
took a real delight in this task, although you 
were annoyed that you had no personal knowl- 
edge of your client. You remember that I 
said to you sometimes in joke: “Plan it as 
though it were for me”; and I cannot forget 
what you replied one day: “I hate the idea 
of a stranger living in the house which I 
planned with you always in my mind.” 

Judge for yourself, Malthe, how painful it 
was to leave you in error. But I could not 

41 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


speak out then, for I had to consider my hus- 
band. For this reason I avoided meeting you 
during the summer; I found it impossible to 
keep up the deception when we were face to 
face. 

It is I—I myself—who will live in the 
“White Villa.” I shall live there quite alone. 

It is useless for me to say, ‘Do not be angry.” 
You would not be what you are if you were 
not annoyed about it. 

You are young, life lies before you. I am 
old. In a very few years I shall be so old 
that you will not be able to realise that there 
was a time when I was “the one woman in the 
world” for you. I am not harping on your 
youth in order to vex you—your youth that 
you hate for my sake! I know that you are 
not fickle; but I know, too, that the laws of 
life and the march of time are alike inexorable. 

When I enter the new home you have 
planned for me, a lonely and divorced woman, 
I shall think of you every day, and my 
thoughts will speak more cordial thanks than 
I can set down coldly in black and white on 
this paper. 

42 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


I do not forbid you to write to me, but, 
save for a word of farewell, I would prefer 
your silence. No letters exchanged between 
us could bring back so much as a reflection 
of the happy hours we have spent together. 
Hours in which we talked of everything, and 
chiefly of nothing at all. 

I do not think we were very brilliant when 
we were together; but we were never bored. 
If my absence brings you suffering, disap- 
pointment, grief—lose yourself in your work, 
so that in my solitude I may still be proud of 
you. 

You taught me to use my eyes, and there is 
much, much in the world I should like to see, 
for, thanks to you, I have learnt how beauti- 
ful the world is. But the wisest course for me 
is to give myself up to my chosen destiny. I 
shut the door of my “White Villa”—and there 


my story ends. 
Your 


ELSIE LINDTNER. 


Reading through my letter, it seems to me 
cold and dry. But it is harder to write such 
a letter to a dear friend than to a stranger. 

43 ; 


LANDED ON MY ISLAND. 
CREPT INTO MY LAIR. 


HE first day is over. Heaven help me 
through those to come! Everything 
here disgusts me, from the smell of 

the new woodwork and the half-dried wall- 
papers to the pattering of the rain over my 
head. 

What an idiotic notion of mine to have a 
glass roof to my bedroom! I feel as though 
I were living under an umbrella through 
which the water might come dripping at any 
moment. During the night this will prob- 
ably happen. The panes of glass, unless they 
are very closely joined together, will let the 
water through, and I shall awake in a pool 
of water. 

Awake, indeed! If only I ever get to 
sleep! My head aches and burns from sheer 
fatigue, but I have not even thought of get- 
ting into bed yet. 

44 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


For the last year I have had plenty of time 
to think things over, and now I am at a loss 
to understand why I have done this. Sup- 
pose it is a piece of stupidity—a carefully 
planned and irrevocable folly? Suppose my 
irritable nerves have played a trick upon me? 
Suppose ... suppose... 

I feel lonely and without will power. I am 
frightened. But the step is taken, and I can 
never turn back. I must never let myself 
regret it. 

This constant rain gives me an icy, damp 
feeling down my back. It gets on my nerves. 

What shall I come to, reduced to the society 
of two females who have nothing in common 
with me but our sex? No one to speak to, 
no one to see. Jeanne is certainly attractive 
to look at, but I cannot converse with her. 
As to Torp, she suits her basement as a gnome 
suits his mountain cave. She looks as though 
she was made to repopulate a desert unaided. 
She wears stays that are crooked back and 
front. 

Never in all my life have I felt so disap- 
pointed, and compelled to put a good face 

45 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


upen a bad business, as when I splashed 
through the wet garden and entered the empty 
house where there was not even a flower to 
welcome my arrival. The rooms are too 
large and bare. . . . Why did I not think of 
that before? 

All the same, decorum must be maintained, 
and my entry was not undignified. 

Ah, the rain, the rain! Jeanne and Torp 
are still cleaning up. They mean to go on 
half the night, scrubbing and sweeping as 
though we expected company to-morrow. I 
start unpacking my trunk, take out a few 
things and stop—begin again and stop again, 
horrified at the quantity of clothes I’ve 
brought. It would have been more sensible 
to send them to one of our beloved “charity 
sales.” ‘They are of no use or pleasure now. 
Black merino and a white woollen shawl— 
what more do I want here? 

God knows how I wish at the present mo- 
ment I were back in the Old Market Place, 
even if I only had Richard’s society to bore 
me. 

What am I doing here? What do I want 

46 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


here? To cry, without having to give an 
account of one’s tears to anyone? 

Of course, all this is only the result of the 
rain. I was longing to be here. It was not 
a mere hysterical whim. No, no... 

It was my own wish to bury myself here. 


* 
% * 


Yesterday I was all nerves. To-day I feel 
as fresh and lively as a cricket. 

We have been hanging the pictures, and 
made thirty-six superfluous holes in the new 
walls. There is no way of concealing them. 
(I must write to Richard to have my engrav- 
ings framed.) It would be stretching a point 
to say we are skilled picture-hangers; we were 
nearly as awkward as men when they try to 
hook a woman’s dress for her. But the pic- 
tures were hung somehow, and look rather 
nice now they are up. 

But why on earth did I give Torp my 
sketch of “A Villa by the Sea” to hang in her 
kitchen? Was I afraid to have it near me? 
Or was it some stupid wish to hurt his feel- 

47 


a) 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


ings? His only gift....I1 feel ashamed 
of myself. 

Jeanne has arranged flowers everywhere, 
and that helps to make the house more home- 
like. 

The place is mine, and I take possession of 
it. Now the sun is shining. I find pleasure 
in examining each article of furniture and re- 
membering the days when we discussed the 
designs together. I ought not to have let him 
do all that. It was senseless of me. 


* “4 * ‘ 

They are much to be envied who can pass 
away the time in their own society. I am 
in my element when I can watch other people 
blowing soap-bubbles; but to blow them my- 
ot Cee 

I am not really clever at creating comfort- 
able surroundings. Far from it. My white 
villa always looks uninhabited, in spite of all 
the flowers with which I allow Jeanne to 
decorate the rooms. Is it because everything 
smells so new? Or because there are no old 
smells? Here there are no whiffs of dust, 

48 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


smoke, or benzine, nor anything which made 
the Old Market Place the Old Market Place. 
Everything is so clean here that one hesitates 
to move a step. The boards are as shiny 
as though they were polished silver... . 
This very moment Torp appeared in felt 
shoes and implored me to get her a strip of 
oilcloth to save her kitchen floor. I feel just 
the same; I scarcely dare defile this spotless 
pitchpine. 


* 
fe Y 


What is the use of all these discussions and 
articles about the equality of the sexes, so long 
as we women are at times the slaves of an 
inevitable necessity? I have suffered more 
than ever the last few days, perhaps because 
I was so utterly alone. Not a human being 
to speak to. Yes, I ought to have stayed in 
bed if only to conceal my ugliness. In town 
I was wise. Buthere... 


% 
* * 


All the same I am proud of my self-control. 
Many women do not possess as much. 
49 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


The moon is in her first quarter; a cold 
dry wind is blowing up; it makes one cough 
merely to hear it whistle. 

I hate winds of all kinds, and here my 
enemy seems to have free entry. I ought to 
have built my house facing south and in some 
hollow sheltered from the wind. Unfortu- 
nately it looks to the north, straight across the 
open sea. 

I have not yet been outside the garden. I 
have made up my mind to keep to this little 
spot as long as possible. I shall get accus- 
tomed to it. I must get accustomed to it. 

Dear souls, how they worry me with their 
letters. Only Malthe keeps silence. Will he 
deign to answer me? 

Jeanne follows me with her eyes as though 
she wanted to learn some art from me. What 
arte 

Good heavens, what can that girl be doing 
here? 

She does not seem made for the celibate 
life of a desert island. Yet I cannot set up 
a footman to keep her company. I will not 

50 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


have men’s eyes prying about my house, I 
have had enough of that. 

A manservant—that would mean love af-— 
fairs, squabbles, and troubles; or marriage, 
and a change of domestics. No, I have a 
right to peace, and I will secure it. The 
worst that could happen to me would be to 
find myself reduced to playing whist with 
Jeanne and Torp. Well, why not? 

Torp spends all her evenings playing pa- 
tience on the kitchen window-sill. Perhaps 
she is telling her fortune and wondering 
whether some good-looking sailor will be 
wrecked on the shores of her desert island. 

Meanwhile Jeanne goes about in silk stock- 
ings. This rather astonishes me. Lillie re- 
proved me for the pernicious custom. Are 
they a real necessity for Jeanne, or does she 
know the masculine taste so well? 


* 
* * 


From all the birch trees that stand quiver- 
ing around the house a golden rain is falling. 
There is not a breath of wind, but the leaves 

51 


‘i 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


keep dropping, dropping. This morning I 
stood on the little balcony and looked out over 
the forest. J do not know why or wherefore, 
but such a sense of quiet came over me. I 
seemed to hear the words: ‘“‘and behold it was 
very good.” Was it the warm russet tint of 
the trees or the profound perfume of the 
woods that induced this calm? 

All day long I have been thinking of 
Malthe, and I feel so glad I have acted as I 
have done. But he might have answered my 
letter. 

Jeanne has discovered the secret of my hair. 
She asked permission to dress it for me in the 
evening when my hair is “awake.” She is 
quite an artist in this line, and I let her occupy 
herself with it as long as she pleased. She 
pinned it up, then let it down again; coiled 
it round my forehead like a turban; twisted 
it into a Grecian knot; parted and smoothed 
it down on each side of my head like a 
hood. She played with it and arranged it a 
dozen different ways like a bouquet of wild 
flowers. 

My hair is still my pride, although it is 

52 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


losing its gloss and colour. Jeanne said, by 
way of consolation, that it was like a wood in 
late autumn. ... 

I should like to know whether this girl 
sprang from the gutter, or was the child of 
poor, honest parents... . 


* 
% * 


“Thousands of women may look at the 
man they love with their whole soul in their 
eyes, and the man will remain as unmoved 
as a stone by the wayside. And then a woman 
will pass by who has no soul, but whose 
artificial smile has a mysterious power to spur 
the best of men to painful desire. . . .” 

One day I found these words underlined in 
a book left open on my table. Who left it 
there, I cannot say; nor whether it was under- 
lined with the intention of hurting my feel- 
ings, or merely by chance. 


* 
* * 


I sit here waiting for my mortal enemy. 
Will he come gliding in imperceptibly or 
stand suddenly before me? Will he overcome 

53 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


me, or shall [ prove the stronger? I am pre- 
pared—but is that sufficient? 

Torp is really too romantic! To-day it 
pleased her to decorate the table with virginia 
creeper. Virginia creeper festooned the 
hanging lamp; virginia creeper crept over 
the cloth. Even the joint was decked out with 
wine-red leaves, until it looked like a ship 
flying all her flags on the King’s birthday. 
Amid all this pomp and ceremony, [I sat all 
alone, without a human being for whom I 
might have made myself smart. I, who for 
the last twenty years, have never even dressed 
the salad without at least one pair of eyes 
watching me toss the lettuce as though I was 
performing some wonderful Indian conjuring 
trick. 

A festal board at which one sits in solitary 
grandeur is the dreariest thing imaginable. 

I rather wish Torp had less “‘style,” as she 
calls it. Undoubtedly she has lived in large 
establishments and has picked up some habits 
and customs from each of them. She is 
welcome to wait at table in white cotton gloves 
and to perch a huge silk bow on her hair, 

54 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


which is redolent of the kitchen, but when 
it comes to trimming her poor work-worn 
nails to the fashionable pyramidal shape—she 
really becomes tragic. 

She “romanticises” everything. I should 
not be at all surprised if some day she 
decked her kitchen range with wreaths of 
roses and hung up works of art between the 
stewpans. 

I am really glad I did not bring Samuel 
the footman with me. He could not have 
waited on me better than Jeanne, and at any 
rate I am free from his eyes, which, in spite 
of all their respectful looks, always reminded 
me of a fly-paper full of dead and dying 
flies. 

Jeanne’s look has a something gliding and 
subtle about it that keeps me company like a 
witty conversation. It is really on her ac- 
count that I dress myself well. But I cannot 
converse with her. I should not like to try, 
and then to be disillusioned. 

Men have often assured me that I was the 
only woman they could talk with as though I 
were one of themselves. Personally I never 

55 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


feel at one with menkind. I only understand 
and admire my own sex. 

In reality I think there is more difference 
between a man and a woman than between 
an inert stone and a growing plant. I say this 
ete: WHOS eos |e 


What business is it of mine? We were not 
really friends. The fact of her having con- 
fided in me makes no demands on my feelings. 
If this thing had happened five years ago, I 
should have taken it as a rather welcome sen- 
sation—nothing more. Or had I read in the 
paper “On the — inst., of heart disease, or 
typhoid fever,” my peace of mind would not 
have been disturbed for an hour. 

I have purposely refrained from reading 
the papers lately. Chancing to open one to- 
day, after a month’s complete ignorance of all 
that had been happening in the world, I saw 
the following headline: Suicide of a Lady 
in a Lunatic Asylum. 


And now I feel as shaken as though I had 
56 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


taken part in a crime; as though I had had 
some share in this woman’s death. 

I am so far to blame that I abandoned her 
at a moment when it might still have been 
possible to save her.... But this is a 
morbid notion! Ifa person wants “to shuffle 
off this mortal coil” it is nobody’s duty to pre- 
vent her. 

To me, Agatha Ussing’s life or death are 
secondary matters; it is only the circumstances 
that trouble me. 

Was she mad, or no? Undoubtedly not 
more insane than the rest of us, but her self- 
control snapped like a bowstring which is 
overstrained. She saw—so she said—a grin- 
ning death’s head behind every smiling face. 
Merely a bee in her bonnet! But she was 
foolish enough to talk about it; and when peo- 
ple laughed at her words with a good-natured 
contempt, her glance became searching and 
fixed as though she was trying to convince her- 
self. Such an awful look of terror haunted 
her eyes, that at her gaze a cold shiver, born 
of one’s own fears and forebodings, ran 
through one. 

57 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


She compelled us to realise the things we 
scarcely dare foresee... . 

I shall never forget a letter in which she 
wrote these words in a queer, faltering hand- 
writing: 

“Tf men suspected what took place in a 
woman’s inner life after forty, they would 
avoid us like the plague, or knock us on the 
head like mad dogs.” 

Such a philosophy of life ended in the poor 
woman being shut up in a madhouse. She 
ought to have kept it to herself instead of post- 
ing it up on the walls of her house. It was 
quite sufficient as a proof of her insanity. 

I cannot think what induced me to visit 
her in the asylum. Not pure pity. I was 
prompted rather by that kind of painful 
curiosity which makes a patient ask to see a 
limb which has just been amputated. I 
wanted to look with my own eyes into that 
shadowy future which Agatha had reached be- 
fore me. 

What did I discover? She had never cared 


for her husband; on the contrary she had 
58 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


betrayed him with an effrontery that would 
hardly have been tolerated outside the smart 
world; yet now she suffered the torments of 
hell from jealousy of her husband. Not of 
her lovers; their day was over; but of him, 
because he was the one man she saw. Also 
because she bore his name and was therefore 
bound to him. 

On every other subject she was perfectly 
sane. When we were left alone together she 
said: “The worst of it is that I know my 
‘madness’ will. only be temporary. It is a 
malady incident to my age. One day it will 
pass away. One day [I shall have got through 
the inevitable phase. But how does that help 
me now?” 

No, it was no more help to her than the 
dreadful paint with which she plastered her 
haggard features. 

It was not the least use to her... . 

Her death is the best thing that could have 
happened, for her own sake and for those 
belonging to her. But I cannot take my 
thoughts off the hours which preceded her 

39 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


end; the time that passed between the moment 
when she decided to commit suicide until she 
actually carried out her resolve. 


* 
* * 


“Tf men suspected .. .” 

It may safely be said that on the whole 
surface of the globe not one man exists who 
really knows a woman. 

They know us in the same way as the bees 
know the flowers; by the various perfumes 
they impart to the honey. No more. 

How could it be otherwise? If a woman 
took infinite pains to reveal herself to a hus- 
band or a lover just as she really is, he would 
think she was suffering from some incurable 
mental disease. 

A few of us indicate our true natures in 
hysterical outbreaks, fits of bitterness and 
suspicion; but this involuntary frankness is 
generally discounted by some subtle deceit. 

Do men and women ever tell each other the 
truth? How often does that happen? More 
often than not, I think, they deal in half-lies, 


hiding this, embroidering that, fact. 
60 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


Between the sexes reigns an ineradicable 
hostility. It is concealed because life has to 
be lived, because it is easier and more con- 
venient to keep it in the background; but it 
is always there, even in those supreme mo- 
ments when the sexes fulfil their highest des- 
tiny. 

A woman who knows other women and 
understands them, could easily prove this in 
so many words; and every woman who heard 
her—provided they were alone—would con- 
fess she was right. But if a man should join 
in the conversation, both women would stamp 
truth underfoot as though it were a venomous 
reptile. 

Men can be sincere both with themselves 
and others; but women cannot. ‘They are cor- 
rupted from birth. Later on, education, 
intercourse with other women and finally mar- 
riage, corrupt them still more. 

A woman may love a man more than her 
own life; may sacrifice her time, her health, 
her existence to him. But if she is wholly a 
woman, she cannot give him her confidence. 


She cannot, because she dares not. 
61 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


In the same way a man—for a certain length 
of time—can love without measure. He can 
then be unlocked like a cabinet full of secret 
drawers and pigeonholes, of which we hold 
the keys. He discloses himself, his present 
and his past. A woman, even in the closest 
bonds of love, never reveals more of herself 
than reason demands. 

Her modesty differs entirely from that of a 
male. She would rather be guilty of incest 
than reveal to a man the hidden thoughts 
which sometimes, without the least scruple, 
she will confide to another woman. Friend- 
ship between men is a very different thing. 
Something honest and frank, from which con- 
sequently they withdraw without anger, mu- 
tual obligation, or fear. Friendship between 
women is a kind of masonic oath; the break- 
ing of it a mutual crime. When two women 
friends quarrel, they generally continue to 
carry deadly weapons against each other, 
which they are only restrained from using by 
mutual fear. 

There are honest women. At least we 


believe there are. It is a necessary part of 
62 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


our belief. Who does not think well of 
mother or sister? But who believes entirely 
in a mother or a sister? Absolutely and un- 
conditionally? Who has never caught mother 
or sister in a falsehood or a subterfuge? Who 
has not sometimes seen in the heart of mother 
or sister, as by a lightning flash, an abyss 
which the profoundest love cannot bridge 
over? 

Who has ever really understood his mother 
or sister? 

The human being dwells and moves alone. 
Each woman dwells in her own planet formed 
of centrifugal fires enveloped in a thin crust 
of earth. And as each star runs its eternal 
course through space, isolated amid countless 
myriads of other stars, so each woman goes 
her solitary way through life. 3 

It would be better for her if she walked 
barefoot over red-hot ploughshares, for the 
pain she would suffer would be slight indeed 
compared to that which she must feel when, 
with a smile on her lips, she leaves her own 
youth behind and enters the regions of despair 


we call “growing old,” and “old age... .” 
/ 63 : 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


All this philosophizing is the result, no 
doubt, of having eaten halibut for lunch; it 
is a solid fish and difficult to digest. 

Perhaps, too, having no company but Jeanne 
and Torp, I am reduced to my own aimless 
reflections. 

Just as clothes exercise no influence on the 
majority of men, so their emotional life is 
not much affected by circumstances. With us 
women it is otherwise. We really are differ- 
ent women according to the dresses we wear. 
We assume a personality in accord with our 
costume. We laugh, talk and act at the ca- 
price of purely external circumstances. 

Take for instance a woman who wants to 
confide in another. She will do it in quite a 
different way in broad daylight in a drawing- 
room than in her little “den” in the gloaming, 
even if in both cases she happens to be quite 
alone with her confidante. 

If some women are specially honoured as the 
recipients of many confidences from their own 
sex, I am convinced they owe it more to physi- 
cal than moral qualities. As there are some 
rooms of which the atmosphere is so cosey and 

64 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


inviting that we feel ourselves at home in them 
without a word of welcome, so we find certain 
women who seem to be endowed with such re- 
ceptivity that they invite the confidences of 
others. 

The history of smiles has never yet been 
written, simply because the few women 
capable of writing it would not betray their 
sex. As to men, they are as ignorant on 
this point as on everything else which concerns 
women—not excepting love. 

I have conversed with many famous 
women’s doctors, and have pretended to ad- 
mire their knowledge, while inwardly I was 
much amused at their simplicity. They 
know how to cut us open and stitch us up 
again—as children open their dolls to see the 
sawdust with which they are stuffed and sew 
them up afterwards with a needle and thread. 
But they get no further. Yes—a little fur- 
ther perhaps. Possibly in course of time they 
begin to discover that women are so infinitely 
their superiors in falsehood that their wisest 
course is to appear once and for all to believe 


them then and there. .. . 
65 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


Women’s doctors may be as clever and sly 
as they please, but they will never learn any 
of the things that women confide to each other. 
It is inevitable. Between the sexes lies not 
only a deep, eternal hostility, but the un- 
fathomable abyss of a complete lack of re- 
ciprocal comprehension. o 

For instance, all the words in a language 
will never express what a smile will express 
—and between women a smile is like a masonic 
sign; we can use them between ourselves with- 
out any fear of their being misunderstood 
by the other sex. 

Smiles are a form of speech with which we 
alone are conversant. Our smiles betray our 
instincts and our burdens; they reflect our 
virtues and our inanity. 

But the cleverest women hide their real 
selves behind a factitious smile. 

Men do not know how to smile. They look 
more or less benevolent, more or less pleased, 
more or less love-smitten; but they are not 
pliable or subtle enough to smile. A woman 
who is not sufficiently prudent to mask her 


features, gives away her soul in a smile. | 
66 


THE ‘DANGEROUS AGE 


have known women who revealed their whole 
natures in this way. 

No woman speaks aloud, but most women 
smile aloud. And the fact that in so doing we 
unveil all our artifice, all the whirlpool of 
our inmost being to each other, proves the ex- 
traordinary solidarity of our sex. 

When did one woman ever betray another? 

This loyalty is not rooted in noble sentiment, 
but proceeds rather from the fear of betraying 
ourselves by revealing things that are the 
secret common property of all womanhood. 

And yet, if a woman could be found willing 
to reveal her entire self? ... 

I have often thought of the possibility, and 
at the present moment I am not sure that she 
would not do our sex an infinite and eternal 
wrong. 

We are compounded so strangely of good 
and bad, truth and falsehood, that it requires 
the most delicate touch to unravel the tangled 
skein of our natures and find the starting point. 

No man is capable of the task. 

During recent years it has become the fash- 
ion for notorious women to publish their remi- 

67 


j 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


niscences in the form of a diary. But has any 
woman reader discovered in all this litera- 
ture a single intimate feature, a single frank 
revelation of all that is kept hidden behind a 
thousand veils? 

If indeed one of these unhappy women 
ventured to write a plain, unvarnished, but 
poignant, description of her inner life, where 
would she find a publisher daring enough to 
let his name appear on the cover of the book? 

I once knew a man who, stirred by a good 
and noble impulse, and confident of his power, 
endeavoured to “save” a very young girl whom 
he had rescued from a house of ill-fame. 
He took her home and treated her like a sister. 
He lavished time and confidence upon her. 
His pride at the transformation which took 
place in her passed all bounds. The girl was 
as grateful as a mongrel and as modest as the 
bride in a romantic novel. He then resolved 
to make her his wife. But one fine day she 
vanished, leaving behind her a note containing 
these words: ‘“‘Many thanks for your kindness, 
but you bore me.” 


During the whole time they had lived to- 
68 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


gether, he had not grasped the faintest notion 
of the girl’s true nature; nor understood 
that to keep her contented it was not sufficient 
to treat her kindly, but that she required some 
equivalent for the odious excitements of the 
past. 


All feminine confessions—except those be- 
tween relations which are generally common- 
place and uninteresting—assume a kind of 
beauty in my eyes; a warmth and solemnity 
that excuses the casting aside of all conven- 
tional barriers. 

I remember one day—a day of oppressive 
heat and the heavy perfume of roses—when, 
with a party of women friends, we began to 
.talk about tears. At first no one ventured to 
speak quite sincerely; but one thing led to an- 
other until we were gradually caught in our 
own snares, and finally we each gave out some- 
thing that we had hitherto kept concealed 
within us, as one locks up a deadly poison. 

Not one of us, it appeared, ever cried be- 


cause of some imperative inward need. Tears 
69 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


are nature’s gift to us. It is our own affair 
whether we squander or economise their use. 

Of all our confessions Sophie Harden’s 
was the strangest. To her, tears were a kind 
of erotic by-play, which added to the enjoy- 
ment of conjugal life. Her husband, a good- 
natured creature, always believed he was to 
blame, and she never enlightened him on the 
point. 

Most of the others owned that they had 
recourse to tears to work themselves up when 
they wanted to make a scene. But Astrid 
Bagge, a gentle, quiet housewife and mother, 
declared she kept all her troubles for the 
evenings when her husband dined at the 
volunteer’s mess, because he hated to see any- 
one crying. Then she sat alone and in dark- 
ness and wept away the accumulated annoy- 
ances of the week. 

When it came to my turn, I spoke the truth 
by chance when I said that, however much I 
wanted to cry, I only permitted myself the 
luxury about once in two years. I think my 
complexion is a conclusive proof that my 
words were sincere. 

70° 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


There are deserts which never know the 
refreshment of dewor rain. My life has been 
such a desert. 

I, who like to receive confidences, have a 
morbid fear of giving them. Perhaps it is be- 
cause I was so much alone, so self-centred, in 
my childhood. 

The more I reflect upon life, the more 
clearly I see that I have not laid out my talents 
to the best advantage. I have no sweet 
memories of infidelity; I have lived irre- 
proachably—and now I am very tired. 

I sit-here and write for myself alone. I 
know that no one else will ever read my words; 
and yet I am not quite sincere, even with my- 
self. 

Life has passed me by; my hands are empty; 
now it is too late. 

Once happiness knocked at my door, and I, 
poor fool, did not rise to welcome it. 

I envy every country wench or servant girl 
who goes off with a lover. But I sit here 
waiting for old age. 

Astrid Bagge. ... As I write her name, 
I feel as though she were standing weeping 

71 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


behind my back; I feel her tears dropping 
on my neck. I cannot weep—but how I long 


for tears! 


* 
* * 


Autumn! Torp has made a huge fire of 
logs in the open grate. The burning wood 
gives out an intoxicating perfume and fills the 
house with cosey warmth. For want of some- 
thing better to do I am looking after the fire 
myself. I carefully strip the bark from each 
log before throwing it on the flames. The 
smell of burning birch-bark goes to my head 
like strong wine. Dreams come and go. 

Joergen Malthe, what a mere boy you are! 


* 
* * 


The garden looks like a neglected church- 
yard, forgotten of the living. The virginia 
creeper falls in blood-red streamers from the 
verandah. The snails drag themselves along 
in the rain; their slow movements remind me 
of women enceinte. The hedge is covered 
with spiders’ webs, and the wet clay sticks to 
one’s shoes as one walks on the paths. 

72 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


Yet there are people who think autumn a 
beautiful time of year! 


* i * 

My will is paralysed from self-disgust. I 
find myself involuntarily listening and watch- 
ing for the postman, who brings nothing for 
me. There are moments when my fingers 
seem to be feeling the smoothness of the cream- 
laid “At Home” cards which used to be 
showered upon us, especially at this season. 
Towards evening I grow restless. Formerly 
my day was a crescendo of activity until the 
social hours were reached. Now the hours 
fall one by one in ashes before my eyes. 

I am myself, yet not myself. There are 
moments when I envy every living creature 
that has the right to pair—either from hate 
or from habit. I am alone and shut out. 
What consolation is it to be able to say: “It 
was my own choice!” 


* 
* * 


A letter from Malthe. 
73 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


No, I will not open it. I do net wish to 
know what he writes. . . . It is a long letter. 


ok 
* * 


My nerves are quiet. But I often lie 
awake, and my sleep is broken. ‘The stars are 
shining over my head, and I never before ex- 
perienced such a sense of repose and calm. 
Is this the effect of the stars, or the letter? 

I am forty-two! It cannot be helped. I 
cannot buy back a single day of my life. 
Forty-two! But during the night the thought 
does not trouble me. The stars above reckon 
by ages, not by years, and sometimes I smile to 
think that as soon as Richard returns home, 
the rooms in our house in the Old Market 
will be lit up, and the usual set will assemble 
there without me. | 

The one thing I should like to know is 
whether Malthe is still in Denmark. 

I would like to know where my thoughts 
should seek him—at home or abroad. 

I played with him treacherously when I 
called him “the youth,” and treated him as a 

74 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


mere boy. If we compare our ages it is true 
enough, but not if we compare feelings. 

Can there be anything meaner than for a 
woman to make fun of what is really sacred 
to here My feelings for Malthe were and 
still are sacred. I myself have befouled them 
with my mockery. 

But when I am lying in my bed beneath 
the vast canopy of the sky, all my sins seem 
forgiven me. Fate alone—Fate who bears all 
things on his shoulders—is to blame, and I 
wish nothing undone. 

The letter will never be read. Never 
voluntarily by me. 

* r * 

I do not know the day of the week. That 
is one step nearer the goal for which I long. 
May it come to pass that the weeks and months 
shall glide imperceptibly over me, so that I 
shall only recognise the seasons by the chang- 
ing tints of the forest and the alternations of 
heat and cold. 

Alas, those days are still a long way off! 

I have just been having a conflict with my- 

75 J 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


self, and I find that all the time I have been 
living here as though I were spending a sum- 
mer holiday in Tyrol. I have been simply de- 
ceiving myself and playing with the hidden 
thought that I could begin my life over again. 

I have shivered with terror at this self- 
deception. ‘The last few nights I have hardly 
slept at all. A traveller must feel the same 
who sails across the sea ignorant of the coun- 
try to which he journeys. Vaguely he pic- 
tures it as resembling his native land, and 
lands to find himself in a wilderness which he 
must plant and cultivate until it blossoms with 
his new desires and dreams. By the time he 
has turned the desert into a home, his day is 


over. . ° +. 


* 
* * 


If I could but make up my mind to burn that 
letter! I weigh it, first in my right hand, then 
in my left. Sometimes its weight makes me 
happy; sometimes it fills me with foreboding. 
Do the words weigh so heavy, or only the 
paperr 

Last night I held it close to the candle. 
76 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


But when the flame touched my letter, I drew 
it quickly away.—It is all I have left to me 


NOW. 2... 


* 
* * 


Richard writes to me that Malthe has been 
commissioned to build a great hospital. Most 
of our great architects competed for the work. 
He goes on to ask whether I am not proud of 
“my young friend.” 

My young friend! ... 


* 
* * 


Jeanne spoke to me about herself to-day. 
I think she was quite bewildered by the 
extraordinary fall of leaves which has almost 
blinded us the last three days. She was doing 
my hair, and tracing a line straight across my 
forehead, she remarked: 

“Here should be a ribbon with red jewels.” 

I told her that I had once had the same idea, 
but I had given it up out of consideration for 
my fellow creatures. 

“But there are none here,” she exclaimed. 

I replied laughing: 

77 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


‘Then it is not worth while decking myself 
out!” 

Jeanne took out the pins and let my hair 
down. 

“Tf I were rich,” she said, “I would dress 
for myself alone. Men neither notice nor 
understand anything about it.” 

We went on talking like two equals, and a 
few minutes later, remembering what I had 
observed, I gave her some silk stockings. 
Instead of thanking me, she remarked so sud- 
denly that she took my breath away: 

“Once I sold myself for a pair of green silk 
stockings.” 

I could not help asking the question: 

“Did you regret your bargain?” 

She looked me straight in the face: 

“T don’t know. I only thought about my 
stockings.” 

Naturally such conversations are rather 
risky; I shall avoid them in future. But the 
riddle is more puzzling than ever. What 
brought Jeanne to share my solitude on this 
island? 


* 
* * 


78 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


Now we have a man about the place. Torp 
got him. He digs in the garden and chops 
wood. But the odour impregnates Torp and 
even reaches me. 

He makes eyes at Jeanne, who looks at me 
and smiles. ‘Torp makes a fuss of him, and 
every night I smell his pipe in the basement. 


* 
* * 


I have shut myself upstairs and played 
patience. The questions I put to the cards 
come from that casket of memories the seven 
keys of which I believed I had long since 
thrown into the sea. A wretched form of 
amusement! But the piano makes me feel sad, 
and there is nothing else to do. 

Malthe’s letter is still intact. I wander 
around it like a mouse round a trap of which it 
suspects the danger. My heart meanwhile 
yearns to know what words he uses. 

He and I belong to each other for the rest 
of our lives. Weowe that tomy wisdom. If 
he never sees me, he will never be able to for- 


get me. 


* 
* * 


79 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


How could I suppose it for a single mo- 
ment! There is no possibility of remaining 
alone with oneself! No degree of seclusion, 
nor even life in a cell, would suffice. Strong 
as is the call of freedom, the power of mem- 
ory is stronger; so that no one can ever choose 
his society at will. Once we have lived with 
our kind, and become filled with the knowl- 
edge of them, we are never free again. 

A sound, a scent—and behold a person, a 
scene, or a destiny, rises up before us. Very 
often the phantoms that come thronging 
around me are those of people whose existence 
is quite indifferent tome. But they appear all 
the same—importunate, overbearing, inevit- 
able. 

We may close our doors to visitors in the 
flesh; but we are forced to welcome these 
phantoms of the memory; to notice them and 
converse with them without reserve. 

People become like books to me. I read 
them through, turn the pages lightly, annotate 
them, learn them by heart. Sometimes I am 
at fault; I see them in a new light. Things 


that were not clear to me become plain; what 
80 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


was apparently incomprehensible becomes as 
straightforward as a commercial ledger. 

It might be a fascinating occupation if I 
could control the entire collection of these 
memories; but I am the slave of those that 
come unbidden. In the town it was just the 
reverse; one impression effaced another. I 
did not realise that thought might become a 


burden. 


* 
* * 


The time draws on. The last few days my 
nerves have made me feverish and restless; 
to-day for no special reason I opened and read 
all my letters, except his. It was like reading 
old newspapers; yet my heart beat faster with 
each one I opened. 

Life there in the city runs its course, only it 
has nothing more to do with me, and before 
long I shall have dropped out of memory like 
one long dead. All these hidden fears, all 
this solicitude, these good wishes, preachings 
and forebodings—there is not a single genuine 
feeling among the whole of them! 


Margethe Ernst is the only one of my old 
81 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


friends who is sincere and does not let herself 
be carried away by false sentiment. She 
writes cynically, brutally even: “An injec- 
tion of morphia would have had just the 
same effect on you; but everyone to his own 
taste.” 

As to Lillie, with her simple, gushing na- 
ture, she tries to write lightly and cheerfully, 
but one divines her tears between the lines. 
She wishes me every happiness, and assures me 
she will take Malthe under her motherly 
wing. 

“He is quiet and taciturn, but fortunately 
much engrossed with his plans for the new 
hospital which will keep him in Denmark 
for some years to come.” 

His work absorbs him; he is young enough 
to forget. 

As to the long accounts of deaths, accidents 
and scandals, a year or two ago they might 
have stirred me in much the same way as the 
sight of a fire or a play. Now it amuses me 
quite as much to watch the smoke from my 
chimney, as it ascends and seems to get 


caught in the tops of the trees. 
82 


THE DANGEROUS AGE — 


Richard is still travelling with his grief, and 
entertains me scrupulously with accounts of 
all the sights he sees and of his lonely sleepless 
nights. Are they always as lonely as he makes 
out? 

As in the past, he bores me with his inter- 
minable descriptions and his whole middle- 
class outlook. Yet for many years he domi- 
nated my senses, which gives him a certain 
hold over me still. I cannot make up my 
mind to take the brutal step which would free 
me once and forall from him. I must let him 
go on believing that our life together was 
happy. 

Why did I read all these letters? What 
did I expect to find? A certain vague hope 
stirred within me that if I opened them I 
should discover something unexpected. 

The one remaining letter—shall I ever find 
courage to open it? I wil/ not know what he 
has written. He does not write well I know. 
He is not a good talker; his writing would 
probably be worse. And yet, I look upon 
that sealed letter as a treasure. 


83 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


Merely touching it, I feel as though I was 
in the same room with him. 


* 
* * 


Lillie’s letter has really done me good; her 
regal serenity makes itself apparent beneath 
all she undertakes. It is wonderful that she 
does not preach at me like the others. “You 
must know what is right for yourself better 
than anybody else,” she says. ‘These words, 
coming from her, have brought me unspeak- 
able strength and comfort, even though I feel 
that she can have no idea of what is actually 
taking place within me. 

Life for Lillie can be summed up in the 
words, “the serene passage of the days.” 
Happy Lillie. She glides into old age just 
as she glided into marriage, smiling, tranquil, 
and contented. Nobody, nothing, can dis- 
turb her quietude. 

It is so when both body and soul find their 
repose and happiness in the same identical 


surroundings. 


* 
* * 


84 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


Jeanne, with some embarrassment, asked 
permission to use the bathroom. I gave her 
leave. It is quite possible that living in the 
basement is not to her taste. To put a bath- 
room down there would take nearly a fort- 
night, and during that time I shall be de- 
prived of my own, for I cannot share my 
bathroom or my bedroom with anyone, least 
of all a woman. . 

I shall never forget the one visit I paid to 
the Russian baths and the sight of Hilda 
Bang. Clothed, she presents rather a fine 
appearance, with a good figure; but seen amid 
the warm steam, in nature’s garb, she seemed 
horrible. 

I would rather walk through an avenue of 
naked men than appear before another woman 
without clothes. This feeling does not 
spring from modesty—what is ite 


* 
* * 


How quiet it is here! Only on Wednes- 
days and Saturdays the steamer for England 
goes by. I know its coming by the sound of 


the screw, but I take care never to see it pass. 
85 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


What if I were seized with an impulse to em- 
bark on her... . 

If one fine morning when Jeanne brought 
the tea she found the bird flown? 

The time is gone by. Life is over. 

I am getting used to sitting here and stitch- 
ing at my seam. My work does not amount 
to much, but the mechanical movement brings 
a kind of restfulness. 

I find I am getting rather capricious. Be- 
tween meals I ring two or three times a day 
for tea—like a convalescent trying a fattening 
cure. Jeanne attends to my hair with inde- 
fatigable care. Without her, should I ever 
trouble to do it at all? 

What can any human being want more than 
this peace and silence? 


* 
* * 


‘If I could only lose this sense of being 
empty-handed, all would be well. Yesterday 
I went down to the seashore and gathered 
little pebbles. I carried them away and 
amused myself by taking them up in handfuls. 


During the night I felt impelled to get up 
86 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


and fetch them, and this morning I awoke 
with a round stone in each hand. 

Hysteria takes strange forms. But who 
knows what is the real ground of hysteria? I 
used to think it was the special malady of the 
unmated woman; but, in later years, I have 
known many who had had a full share of the 
passional life, legitimate and otherwise, and 
yet still suffered from hysteria. 


* 
* * 


I begin to realise the fascination of the 
cloister; the calm, uniform, benumbing exist- 
ence. But my comparison does not apply. 
The nun renounces all will and responsibility, 
while I cannot give up one or the other. 

I have reached this point, however: only 
that which is bounded by my garden hedge 
seems to me really worthy of consideration. 
The house in the Old Market Place may be 
burnt down for all I care. Richard may 
marry again. Malthe may.... 

Yes, I think I could receive the news in 
silence like the monk to whom the prior 


announces, “One of the brethren is dead, pray 
87 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


for his soul.” No one present knows, nor 
will ever know, whether his own brother or 
father has passed away. 

What hopeless cowardice prevents my 
opening his letter! 


88 


EVENING. 

OMEBODY should found a vast and 

S cheerful sisterhood for women between 

forty and fifty; a kind of refuge for the 

victims of the years of transition. For during 

that time women would be happier in volun- 

tary exile, or at any rate entirely separated 
from the other sex. 

Since all are suffering from the same 
trouble, they might help each other to make 
life, not only endurable, but harmonious. 
We are all more or less mad then, although 
we struggle to make others think us sane. 

I say “we,” though I am not of their 
number—in age, perhaps, but not in tempera- 
ment. Nevertheless I hear the stealthy foot- 
steps of the approaching years. By good 
fortune, or calculation, I have preserved my 
youthful appearance, but it has cost me dear 
to economise my emotions. 

Old age, in truth, is only a goal to be fore- 
seen. A mountain to be climbed; a peak from 

89 ; 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


which to see life from every side—provided 
we have not been blinded by snowfalls on the 
way. I do not fear old age; only the hard 
ascent to it has terrors for me. The day, the 
hour, when we realise that something has 
gone from our lives; when the cry of our heart 
provokes laughter in others! 

To all of us women comes a time in life 
when we believe we can conquer or deceive 
time. But soon we learn how unequal is the 
struggle. We all come to it in the end. 

Then we grow anxious. Anxious at the 
coming of day; still more anxious at the 
coming of night. We deck ourselves out at 
night as though in this way we could put our 
anxiety to flight. 

Weare careful about our food and our rest; 
we watch that our smiles leave no wrinkles. 

. . Yet never a word of our secret terror 
do we whisper aloud. We keep silence or 
we lie. Sometimes from pride, sometimes 
from shame. 

Hitherto nobody has ever proclaimed this 
great truth: that as they grow older—when 
the summer comes and the days lengthen— 

go 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


women become more and more women. 
Their feminality goes on ripening into the 
depths of winter. 

Yet the world compels them to steer a 
false course. Their youth only counts so 
long as their complexions remain clear and 
their figures slim. Otherwise they are ex- 
posed to cruel mockery. A woman who tries 
late in life to make good her claim to existence, 
is regarded with contempt. For her there is 
neither shelter nor sympathy. 

It sometimes happens that a winter gale 
strips all the leaves from a tree in a single 
night. When does a woman grow old in body 
and soul in one swift and merciful moment? 
From our birth we are accursed. 

I blame no one for my failure in life. It 
was in my own hands. If I could live it 
through again from the start, it is more than 
probable I should waste the years for a second 
time. 


gI 


CHRISTMAS EVE. 
T this hour there will be festivities in 
the Old Market Place. Richard’s last 
letter touched me profoundly; some- 
thing within me went out toward his honest 
watire. 6s 
What is the use of all these falsehoods? 
I long for an embrace. Is that shocking? 
We women are so wrapped in deceit that we 
feel ashamed of confessing such things. Yet 
it is true, I miss Richard. Not the husband or 
companion, but the lover. 
What use in trying to soothe my senses by 
walking for hours through the silent woods. 
Lillie, in the innocence of her heart, sent 
me a tiny Christmas tree, decorated by herself 
and her lanky daughters. Sweets and little 
presents are suspended from the branches. 
She treats me like a child, or a sick person. 
Well, let it be so! Lillie must never have 
the vexation of learning that I detested her 
girls simply because they represented the 
92 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


youthful generation which sooner or later 
must supplant me. 

I have made good use of my eyes, and I 
know what I have seen: the same enmity exists 
between two generations as between the sexes. 

While the young folk in their arrogant 
cruelty laugh at us who are growing old, we, 
in our turn, amuse ourselves by making fun of 
them. If women could buy back their lost 
youth by the blood of those nearest and dearest 
to them, what crimes the world would witness! 

How I used to hate Richard when I saw 
him so completely at his ease among young 
people, and able to take them so seriously. 


* 
* * 


Christmas Eve! In honour of Jeanne, I 
put on one of my very best frocks—Paquin. 
Moreover, I have decorated myself with rings 
and chains as though I were a silly Christmas 
Tree myself. 

Jeanne has enjoyed herself to-day. She 
and Torp rose before it was light to deck the 
rooms with pine branches. Over the ve- 
randah waves the Swedish flag, which Torp 

93 j 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


generally suspends above her bed, in remem- 
brance of Heaven knows who. I gave myself 
the pleasure of surprising Jeanne, by bestow- 
ing upon her my green crépe de Chine. In 
future grey and black will be my only wear. 

After the obligatory goose, and the inevi- 
table Christmas dishes, I spent the evening 
reading the letters with which “my friends” 
honour me punctiliously. 

Without seeing the handwriting, or the 
signature, I could name from the contents 
alone the writer of each one of them. They 
all write about the honours which have be- 
fallen Joergen Malthe: a hospital here; a 
palace of archives there. What does it mat- 
ter to me? I would far rather they wrote: 
“To-day a motor-car ran over Joergen Malthe 
and killed him on the spot.” 

I have arrived at that stage. 

But to-night I will not think about him; 
I would rather try to write to Magna Well- 
mann. I may be of some use toher. In any 
case I will tell her things that it will do her 
good to hear. She is one of those who take 
life hard. 

94 


EAR MAGNA WELLMANN, 

It is with great difficulty that I ven- 

ture to give you advice at this moment. 

Besides, we are so completely opposed in 

habit, thought, and temperament. We have 

really nothing in common but our unfortunate 

middle age and our sex; therefore, how can it 

help you to know what I should do if I were 
in your place? 

May I speak quite frankly without any 
fear of hurting your feelings? In that case I 
will try to advise you; but I can only do so by 
making your present situation quite clear to 
you. Only when you have faced matters can 
you hope to decide upon some course. of ac- 
tion which you will not afterwards regret. 
Your letter is the queerest mixture of self- 
deception and a desire to be quite frank. 
You try to throw dust in my eyes, while at 
the same time you are betraying all that you 
are most anxious to conceal. Judging from 
your letter, the maternal feeling is deeply in- 
grained in your nature. You are prepared to 

95 i 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


fight for your children and sacrifice yourself 
for them if necessary. You would put your- 
self aside in order to secure for them a healthy 
and comfortable existence. | 

The real truth is that your conscience is 
pricking you with a remorse that has been in- 
stigated by others. Maternal sentiment is not 
your strong point; far from it. In your hus- 
band’s lifetime you did not try to make two 
and two amount to five; and you often 
showed very plainly that your children 
were rather an encumbrance than otherwise. 
When at last your affection for them grew, 
it was not because they were your own flesh 
and blood, but because you were thrown into 
daily contact with these little creatures whom 
you had to care for. 

Now you have lost your head because the 
outlook is rather bad. Your family, or rather 
your late husband’s people, have attempted to 
coerce you in a way that I consider entirely 
unjustifiable. And you have allowed yourself 
to be bullied, and therefore, all unconsciously, 
have given them some hold over your life and 
actions. 

96 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


You must not forget that your husband’s 
family, without being asked, have been allow- 
ing you a yearly income which permitted you 
to live in the same style as before Professor 
Wellmann’s death. They placed no restric- 
tions upon you, and made no conditions. 
Now, the family—annoyed by what reaches 
their ears—want to insist that you should con- 
form to their wishes; otherwise they will 
withdraw the money, or take from you the 
custody of the children. This is a very 
arbitrary proceeding. 

Reflect well what they are asking of you 
before you let yourself be bound hand and 
foot. 

Are you really capable, Magna, of being an 
absolutely irreproachable widow? | 

Perhaps there ought to be a law by which 
penniless widows with children to bring up 
should be incarcerated in some kind of nun- 
nery, or burnt alive at the obsequies of their 
husbands. But failing such a law, I do not 
think a grown-up woman is obliged to prom- 
ise that she will henceforth take a vow of 
chastity. One must not give a promise only 

97 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


to break it, and, my dear Magna, I do not 
think you are the woman to keep a vow of 
that kind. 

For this reason you ought never to have 
made yourself dependent upon strangers by 
accepting their money for the education of 
your children. At the same time I quite see 
how hard it would be to find yourself empty- 
handed with a pack of children all in need of 
something. If you had not courage to try to 
live on the small pension allowed by the State, 
you would have done better to find some means 
of earning a livelihood with the help of your 
own people. 

You never thought of this; while I was 
too much taken up with my own affairs just 
then to have any superfluous energy for other 
people’s welfare or misfortune. 

But now we come to the heart of the ques- 
tion. For some years past you have confided 
in me—more fully than I really cared about. 
While your husband was alive I often found 
it rather painful to be always looking at him 
through the keyhole, so to speak. But this 

! 98 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


confidence justifies me in speaking quite 
frankly. 

My dear Magna, listen to me. A woman 
of your temperament ought never to bind her- 
self by marriage to any man, and is certainly 
not fit to have children. You were intended 
—do not take the words as an insult—to lead 
the life of a fille de joie. The term sounds 
ugly—but I know no other that is equally ap- 
plicable. Your vehement temperament, your 
insatiable desire for new excitements—in a 
word, your whole nature tends that way. You 
cannot deny that your marriage was a grave 
mistake. 

There was just the chance—a remote one 
—that you might have met the kind of hus- 
band to suit you: an eminently masculine type, 
the kind who would have kept the whip-hand 
over you, and regarded a wife as half-mis- 
tress, half-slave. Even then I think your 
conjugal happiness would have ceased the first 
day he lost the attraction of novelty. 

Professor Wellmann, your quiet, correct 
husband, was as great a torment to you as you 

99 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


were tohim. Without intending it, you made 
his life a misery. ‘The dreadful scenes which 
were brought about by your violent and sen- 
sual temperament so changed his disposition 
that he became brutal; while to you they be- 
came a kind of second nature, a necessity, like 
food or sleep. 

Magna, you will think me brutal, too, be- 
cause I now tell you in black and white what 
formerly I lacked the courage to say. Believe 
me, it was often on the tip of my tongue to 
exclaim: ‘Better have a lover than torment 
this poor man whose temperament is so dif- 
ferent to your own.” 

I will not say you did not care for your 
husband. You learnt to see his good quali- 
ties; but there was no true union between you. 
You hated his work. Not like a woman who 
is jealous of the time spent away from her; 
but because you believed such arduous brain 
work made him less ardent as a lover. Al- 
though you did not really care for him, you 
would have sacrificed all his fame and reputa- 
tion for an hour of unreasoning passion. 


At his death you lost the breadwinner and 
100 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


the position you had gained in the world as 
the wife of a celebrity. Your grief was 
sincere; you felt your loneliness and loss. 
Then for the first time you clung to your 
children, and erroneously believed you were 
moved by maternal feeling. You honestly 
intended henceforward to live for them alone. 

All went well for three months, and then 
the struggle began. Do you know, Magna, I 
admired the way you fought. You would not 
give way an inch. You wore the deepest 
weeds. Sheltered behind your crape, you 
surrounded yourself by your children, and 
fought for your life. 

This inward conflict added to your attrac- 
tions. It gave you an air of nobility you had 
hitherto lacked. 3 

Then the world began to whisper evil about 
you while you were still quite irreproachable. 

No, after all there was something to re- 
proach you with, although it was not known to 
outsiders. While you were fighting your in- 
stincts and trying to live as a spotless widow, 
your character was undergoing a change: 


against your will, but not unconsciously, you 
: IOI 4 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


were become a perfect fury. In this way 
your children acquired that timidity which 
they have never quite outgrown. Strangers 
began to notice this after a while, and to 
criticise your behaviour. 

Time went on. You wrote that you were 
obliged to do a “cure” in a nursing home for 
nervous complaints. When I heard this, I 
could not repress a smile, in spite of your mis- 
fortunes. Nerve specialists may be very 
clever, but can they be expected, even at the 
highest fees, to replace defunct husbands. 
You were kept in bed and dosed with 
bromides and sulphonal. After a few weeks 
you were pronounced quite well, and left the 
home a little stouter and rather languid after 
keeping your bed so long. 

When you got home you turned the house 
upside-down in a frantic fit of “cleaning.” 
You walked for miles; you took to cooking; 
and at night, having wearied your body out 
with incessant work, you tried to lull your 
brain by reading novels. 

What was the use of it all? The day you 


confessed to me that you had walked about 
102 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


the streets all night lest you should kill your- 
self and your children, I realised that your 
powers of resistance were at an end. A week 
later you had embarked upon your first /iaison. 
A month later the whole town was aware of 
it. 

That was about a year after the Professor’s 
death. Six or seven years have passed since 
then, and you have gone on from adventure 
to adventure, all characterised by the same 
lamentable lack of discretion. The reason for 
this lies in your own tendency to self-decep- 
tion. You want to make yourself and others 
believe that you are always looking for ideal 
love and constant ties: In reality your 
motives are quite different. You hug the tra- 
ditional conviction that it would be disgrace- 
ful to own that your pretended love is only an 
affair of the senses. And yet, if you had not 
been so anxious to dupe yourself and others, 
you might have gone through life frankly and 
freely. ‘ 

The night is far advanced, moreover it is 
Christmas Eve. 


I will not accuse you without producing 
103 i 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


proofs. Enclosed you will find a whole series 
of letters, dated irregularly, for you only used 
to write to me when I was away from home 
in the summer. In these letters, which I have 
carefully collected, and for which I have no 
ground for reproaching you, you will see 
yourself reflected as in a row of mirrors. Do 
not be ashamed; your self-deception is not 
your fault; society is to blame. I am not 
sending the letters back to discourage or hurt 
you; only that you may see how, with each 
adventure, you have started with the same 
sentimental illusions and ended with the same 
pitiable disenchantment. 

A penniless widow turned forty—we are 
about the same age—with five children has 
not much prospect of marrying again, how- 
ever attractive she may be. I have told you 
so repeatedly; but your feminine vanity re- 
fuses to believe it. In each fresh adventure 
you have seen a possible marriage—not 
because you feel specially drawn towards 
matrimony, but because you are unwill- 
ing to leave the course free to younger 


women. 
104 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


You have shown yourself in public ‘with 
your admirers. 

Neglecting the most ordinary precautions, 
you have allowed them to come to your house; 
in a word, you have unblushingly advertised 
connections which ought to have been con- 
cealed. 

And the men you selected? 

I do not wish to criticise your choice; but 
I quite understand why your friends objected 
and were ashamed on your account. 

At first people made the best of the situa- 
tion, tacitly hoping that the affairs might lead 
to marriage and that your monetary cares 
would thus find a satisfactory solution. But 
after so many useless attempts this benevolent 
attitude was abandoned, and scandal grew. 

Meanwhile you, Magna, blind to all opin- 
ion, continued to follow the same round: 
flirtation, sentiment, intimacy, adoration, sub- 
mission, jealousy, suspicion, suffering, hatred, 
and contempt. 

The more inferior the man of your choice, 
the more determined you were to invest him 


with extraordinary qualities. But as soon as 
105 f 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


the next one appeared on the scene, you be- 
gan to judge his predecessor at his true value. 

If all this had resulted in your getting the 
wherewithal to bring up your children in 
comfort, I should say straight out: ‘My dear 
Magna, pay no attention to what other peo- 
ple say, go your own road.” 

But, unfortunately, it is just the reverse; 
your children suffer. They are growing up. 
Wanda and Ingrid are almost young women. 
In a year or two they will be at a marriageable 
age. How much longer do you suppose you 
can keep them in ignorance? Perhaps they 
know things already. I have somtimes sur- 
prised a look in Wanda’s eyes which sug- 
gested that she saw more than was desirable. 

In my opinion it is better for children 
not to find out these things until they are 
quite old enough to understand them com- 
pletely. But the evil is done, and cannot be 
undone. And yet, Magna, the peace of mind 
of these innocent victims is entirely in your 
hands. You can secure it without making the 
sacrifice that your husband’s family demands 


of you. 
106 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


You have no right to let your children grow 
up in this unwholesome atmosphere; and the 
atmosphere with which their dear mother 
surrounds them cannot be described as 
healthy. 

If your character was as strong as your 
temperament, you would not hesitate to take 
all the consequences on your own shoulders. 
But it is not so. You would shrink from the 
hard work involved in emigrating and mak- 
ing yourself a new home abroad; at the same 
time you would be lowered in your own eyes 
if you gave your children into the care of 
others. 

Then, since for the next few years you will 
never resign yourself to single life, and are not 
likely to find a husband, you must so arrange 
your love affairs that they escape the attention 
of the world. Why should you mix them up 
with your home life and your children? 
What you need are prudence and calculation; 
but you have neither. 

You will never fix your life on a firm basis 
until you have relegated men to the true place 


they occupy in your existence. If you could 
107 : 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


only make yourself see clearly the fallacy of 
thinking that every man you meet is going to 
love you for eternity. A woman like yourself 
can attract lovers by the dozen; but yours is 
not the temperament to inspire a serious rela- 
tionship which might become a lasting friend- 
ship. If you constantly see yourself left in 
the lurch and abandoned by your admirers 
before you have tired of them yourself, it is 
because you always delude yourself on this 
point. 

I know another woman situated very much 
as you are. She too has a large family, and 
a weakness for the opposite sex. Everybody 
knows that she has her passing love affairs, 
but no one quarrels with her on that score. 

She is really entitled to some respect, for 
she lives in her own house the life of an ir- 
reproachable matron. She shows the tender- 
est regard for the needs of her children, and 
never a man crosses her threshold but the 
doctor. 

You see, dear Magna, that I have devoted 
half my Christmas night to you, which I cer- 


tainly should not have done if I did not feel 
108 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


a special sympathy for you. If I wind up 
my letter with a proposal that may wound 
your feelings at first sight, you must try to 
understand that it is kindly meant. 

Living here alone, a few months’ experience 
has shown me that my income exceeds my 
requirements, and I can offer to supply you 
with a sum which you can pay me back in a 
year or two, without interest. This would 
enable you to learn some kind of business 
which would secure you a living and free 
you from family interference. Consider it 
well. 

I live so entirely to myself on this island 
that I have plenty of time to ponder over my 
own lot and that of other people. Write to 
me when you feel the wish or need to do so. 
I will reply to the best of my ability. IfI am 
very taciturn about my own affairs, it springs 
from an idiosyncrasy that I cannot overcome. 
To make sure of my meaning I have read 
my letter through once more, and find that it 
does not express all I wanted to say. Never 
mind, it is true in the main. Only try to 
understand that I do not wish to sit in judg- 

109 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


ment upon you, only to throw some light on 
the situation. With all kind thoughts. 
Yours, 
ELSIE LINDTHER. 


* 
* * 


It snows, and snows without ceasing. The 
trees are already wrapped in snow, like pre- 
cious objects packed in wadding. ‘The paths 
will soon be heaped up to their level. The 
snowflakes are as large as daisies. When I 
go out they flutter round me like a swarm of 
butterflies. Those that fall into the water dis- 
appear like shooting stars, leaving no trace 
behind. 

The glass roof of my bedroom is as heavy 
as a coffin-lid. I sleep with my window open, 
and when there comes a blast of wind my eyes 
are filled with snow. This morning, when I 
woke, my pillow-case was as wet as though 
I had been crying all night. 

Torp already sees us in imagination snowed 
up and receiving our food supplies down the 
chimney. She is preparing for the occasion. 


Her hair smells as though she had been singe- 
110 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


ing chickens, and she has illuminated the base- 
ment with small lamps and red shades edged 
with pearl fringes. 

Jeanne is equally enchanted. When she 
goes outside without a hat her hair looks like 
a burning torch against the snow. She does 
not speak, but hums to herself, and walks more 
lightly and softly than ever, as though she 
feared to waken some sleeper. 

. .. I remember how Malthe and I were 
once talking about Greece, and he gave me an 
account of a snowstorm in Delphi. I cannot 
recall a word of his description; I was not 
listening, but just thinking how the snow 
would melt when it fell upon his head. 

He has fulfilled my request not to write. I 
have not had a line since his only letter came. 
Arid vets oi, 


* 
* * 


I have burnt his letter. 

I have burnt his letter. (A few ashes are all 
that remain to me. 

It hurts me to look at the ashes. I cannot 


make up my mind to throw them away. 
III 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


I have got rid of the ashes. It was harder 
than I thought. Even now I am restless. 


* 
* * 


I am glad the letter is destroyed. Now I 
am free at last. My temptations were very 
natural, 

The last few days I have spent in bed. 
Jeanne is an excellent nurse. She makes as 
much fuss of me as though I were really ill, 
and I enjoy it. 


* 
* * 


The Nirvana of age is now beginning. 
In the morning, when Jeanne brushes my 
hair, I feel a kind of soothing titillation which 
lasts all day. I do not trouble about dressing; 
I wear no jewellery and never look in the 
glass. 

‘Very often I feel as though my thoughts 
had come to a standstill, like a watch one has 
forgotten to wind up. But this blank re- 
freshes me. 


Weeks have gone by since I wrote in my 
112 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


diary. Several times I have tried to do so; 
but when I have the book in front of me, I 
find I have nothing to set down. 

In the twilight I sit by the fire like an old 
child and talk to myself. Then Torp comes 
to me for the orders which she ends by giving 
herself, and I let her talk to me about her own 
affairs. The other day I got her on the sub- 
ject of spooks. She is full of ghost stories, 
and relates them with such conviction that her 
teeth chatter with terror. Happy Torp, to 
possess such imagination! 

Some days I hardly budge from one posi- 
tion, and can with difficulty force myself to 
leave my table; at other times I feel the need 
of incessant movement. The forest is very 
quiet, scarcely a soul walks there. If I do 
chance to meet anyone, we glare at each other 
like two wild beasts, uncertain whether to at- 
tack or to flee from each other. 

The forest belongs to me... . 

The piano is closed. I never use it now. 
The sound of the wind in the trees is music 
enough for me. I rise from my bed and 

113 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


listen until I am half frozen. I, who was 
never stirred or pleased by the playing of 
virtuosi! 

I have no more desires. Past and future 
both repose beneath a shroud of soft, mild 
fog. I am content to live like this. But the 
least event indoors wakes me from my 
lethargy. Yesterday Torp sent for the sweep. 
Catching sight of him in my room, I could 
not repress a scream. I could not think for 
the moment what the man could be doing 
here. : 

Another time a stray cat took refuge under 
my table. I was not aware of it, but no sooner 
had I sat down than I felt surcharged with 
electricity. I rang for Jeanne, and when she 
came into the room the creature darted from 
its hiding-place, and I was panic-stricken. 

Jeanne carried it away, but for a long time 
afterwards I shivered at the sight of her. 

Whence comes this horror of cats? Many 
people make pets of them. Personally I 
should prefer the company of a_ boa-con- 
strictor. 


114 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


A man whose vanity I had wounded 
once took it upon himself to tell me some 
plain truths. He did me this honour because 
I had not sufficiently appreciated his atten- 
tions. 

He assured me that I was neither clever nor 
gifted, but that I was merely skilful at not 
letting myself be caught out, and had a certain 
quickness of repartee. He was quite right. 

What time and energy I have spent in try- 
ing to keep up this reputation of being a clever 
woman, when I was really not born one! 

My vanity demanded that I should not be 
run after for my appearance only; so I sur- 
rounded myself with clever men and let them 
call me intellectual. It was Hans Andersen’s 
old tale of “The King’s New Clothes” over 
again, 

We spoke of political economy, of states- 
manship, of art and literature, finance and 
religion. I knew nothing about all these 
things, but, thanks to an animated air of at- 
tention, I steered safely between the rocks and 


won a reputation for cleverness. 


* 
* * 


115 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


In English novels, with their insipid 
sweetness that always reminds me of the 
smell of frost-bitten potatoes, the heroine 
sometimes permits herself the luxury of being 
blind, lame, or disfigured by smallpox. The 
hero adores her just the same. How false to 
life! My existence would have been very dif- 
ferent if ten years ago I had lost my long 
eyelashes, if my fingers had become deformed, 
or my nose shown signs of redness... . 

A red nose! It is the worst catastrophe 
that can befall a beautiful woman. I always 
suspected this was the reason why Adelaide 
Svanstroem took poison. Poor woman, un- 
luckily she did not take a big enough dose! 


* 
* * 


116 


JANUARY. 

Y senses are reawakening. Light 

and sound now bring me en- 

tirely new impressions; what I see, 

I now also feel, with nerves of which hitherto 

I did not suspect the existence. When even- 

ing draws on I stare into the twilight until 

everything seems to shimmer before my eyes, 
and I dream like a child... . 

Yesterday, before going to bed, I went on 
my balcony, as I usually do, to take a last 
glance at the sea. But it was the starry sky 
that fixed my attention. It seemed to reveal 
and offer itself to me. I felt I had never 
really seen it before, although I sleep with it 
over my head! 

Each star was to me like a dewdrop created 
to slake my thirst. I drank in the sky like a 
plant that is almost dead for want of moisture, 
And while I drank it in, I was conscious of a 
sensation hitherto unknown to me. For the 
first time in my life I was aware of the exist- 

117 ‘ 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


ence of my soul. I threw back my head to 
gaze and gaze. Night enfolded me in all its 
splendour, and I wept. 

What matter that I am growing old? 
What matter that I have missed the best in 
life? Every night I can look towards the 
stars and be filled with their chill, eternal 
peace. 

I, who never could read a poem without 
secretly mocking the writer, who never be- 
lieved in the poets’ ecstasies over Nature, now 
I perceive that Nature is the one divinity 
worthy to be worshipped. 


Bo 
* * 


I miss Margarethe Ernst; especially her 
amusing ways. How she _ glided about 
among people, always ready to dart out 
her sharp tongue, always prepared to sting. 
And yet she is not really unkind, in spite of 
her little cunning smile. But her every move- 
ment makes a singular impression which is 
calculated. 

We amused each other. We spoke so can- 


didly about other people, and lied so grace- 
118 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


fully to each other about ourselves. More- 
over, I think she is loyal in her friendship, 
and of all my letters hers are the best written. 

I should have liked to have drawn her out, 
but she was the one person who knew how to 
hold her own. I always felt she wore a suit 
of chain armour under her close-fitting dresses 
which was proof against the assaults of her 
most impassioned adorers. 

She is one of those women who, without 
appearing to do so, manages to efface all her 
tracks as she goes. I have watched her change 
her tactics two or three times in the course of 
an evening, according to the people with 
whom she was talking. She glided up to 
them, breathed their atmosphere for an in- 
stant, and then established contact with them. 

She is calculating, but not entirely for her 
own ends; she is like a born mathematician 
who thoroughly enjoys working out the most 
difficult problems. 

I should like to have her here for a week. 

She, too, dreads the transition years. She . 
tries in vain to cheat old age. Lately she 
adopted a “court mourning” style of dress, 

IIig 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


and wore little, neat, respect-impelling man- 
tillas round her thin, Spanish-looking face. 
One of these days, when she is close upon fifty, 
we shall see her return to all the colours of 
the rainbow and to ostrich plumes. She lives 
in hopes of a new springtide in life. Shall 
I invite her here? 

She would come, of course, by the first train, 
scenting the air with wide nostrils, like a stag, 
and an array of trunks behind her! 

No! To ask her would be a lamentable 
confession of failure. 


* 
* * 


The last few days I have arrived at a 
condition of mind which occasions great self- 
admiration. J am now sure that, even if the 
difference in our ages did not exist, I could 
never marry Malthe. 

I could do foolish, even mean things for 
the sake of the one man I have loved with all 
my heart. I could humble myself to be his 
mistress; I could die with him. But set up a 
home with Joergen Malthe—never! 


The terrible part of home life is that every 
120 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


piece of furniture in the house forms a link 
in the chain which binds two married people 
long after love has died out—if, indeed, it 
ever existed between them. Two human be- 
ings—who differ as much as two human 
beings always must do—are compelled to 
adopt the same tastes, the same outlook. The 
home is built upon this incessant conflict. 
The struggle often goes on in silence, but it is 
not the less bitter, even when concealed. 
How often Richard and I gave way to each 
other with a consideration masking an annoy- 
ance that rankled more than a violent quarrel 
would have done. . . . What a profound con- 
tempt I felt for his tastes; and, without saying 
it in words, how he disapproved of mine! 
No! His home was not mine, although we 
lived in it like an ideal couple, at one on all 
points. My person for his money—that was 
the bargain, crudely but truthfully expressed. 


* 
* * 


Just as one arranges the scenery for a 
tableau vivant, I prepared my “living grave” 
in this house, which Malthe built in ig- 


I2!I 4 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


norance of its future occupant. And here 
I have learnt that joy of possession which 
hitherto I have only known in respect of my 
jewellery. 

This house is really my home. My first and 
only home. Everything here is dear to me, 
because it 7s my own. 

I love the very earthworms because they 
do good to my garden. The birds in the trees 
round about the house are my property. I 
almost wish I could enclose the sky and clouds 
within a wall and make them mine. 

In Richard’s house in the Old Market I 
never felt at home. Yet when [I left it I felt 
as though all my nerves were being torn from 
my body. 

Joergen Malthe is the man I love; but apart 
from that he is a stranger to me. We do not 
think or feel alike. He has his world and I 
have mine. I should only be like a vampire 
to him. His work would be hateful to me 
before a month was past. All women in love 
are like Magna Wellmann. I shudder when 
I think of the big ugly room where he lives 


and works; the bare deal table, the dusty 
122 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


books, the trunk covered with a travelling rug, 
the dirty curtains and unpolished floor. 

Who knows? Perhaps the sense of discom- 
fort and poverty which came over me the 
day I visited his rooms was the chief reason 
why I never ventured to take the final step. 
He paced the carpetless floor and held forth 
interminably upon Brunelleschi’s cupola. He 
sketched its form in the air with his hands, 
and all the time I was feeling in imagination 
their touch upon my head. Every word he 
spoke betrayed his passion, and yet he went on 
discussing this wretched dome—about which 
I cared as little as for the inkstains on his 
table. 

I expressed my surprise that he could put 
up with such a room. . 

“But I get the sunshine,” he said, blushing. 

I am quite sure that he often stands at his 
window and builds the most superb palaces 
from the red-gold of the sunset sky, and marble 
bridges from the purple clouds at evening. 

Big child that you are, how I love you! 

But I will never, never start a home with 
you! 


123 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


Well, surely one gardener can hardly suffice 
to poison the air of the place. If he is a nui- 
sance I shall send him packing. 

The man comes from a big estate. If he is 
content to cultivate my cabbage patch, it must 
be because, besides being very ugly, he has 
some undiscovered faults. But I really can- 
not undertake to make minute inquiries into 
the psychical qualities of Mr. Under-gardener 
Jensen. 

His photograph was sent by a registry 
office, among many others. We examined 
them, Jeanne, Torp, and myself, with as deep 
an interest as though they had been fashion 
plates from Paris. ‘To my silent amusement, 
I watched Torp unconsciously sniffing at each 
photograph as though she thought smells 
could be photographed, too. 

Prudence prompted me to select this man; 
he is too ugly to disturb our peace of mind. 
On the other hand, as I had the wisdom not 
to pull down the hut in which the former 
- proprietor lived, the two rooms there will have 
to do for Mr. Jensen, so that we can keep him 
at a little distance. 

124 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


Torp asked if he was to take meals in the 
kitchen. 

Certainly! J have no intention of having 
him for my opposite neighbour at table. 
But, on the whole, he had better have his meals 
in his hut, then we shall not be always smell- 
ing him. 


* 
* * 


Perhaps we are really descended from dogs, 
for the sense of smell can so powerfully in- 
fluence our senses. 

I would undertake in pitch darkness to 
recognise every man I know by the help of 
my nose alone; that is, if I passed near enough 
to him to sniff his atmosphere. I am almost 
ashamed to confess that men are the same 
to me as flowers; I judge them by their smell. 
I remember once a young English waiter in a 
restaurant who stirred all my sensibilities 
each time he passed the back of my chair. 
Luckily Richard was there! For the same 
reason I could not endure Herr von Brincken 
to come near me—and equally for the same 


reason Richard had power over my senses. 
125 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


Every time I bite the stalk of a pansy I 
recall the neighbourhood of the young Eng- 
lishman. 

Men ought never to use perfumes. The 
Creator has provided them. But with women 


it is different. ... 


* 
* * 


To-day is my birthday. No one here knows 
it. Besides, what woman would enjoy cele- 
brating her forty-third birthday? Only Lillie 
Rothe, I am sure! ... 

One day I was talking to a specialist about 
the thousands of women who are saved by 
medical science to linger on and lead a 
wretched semi-existence. These women who 
suffer for years physically and are oppressed 
by a melancholy for which there seems to be 
no special cause. At last they consult a doc- 
tor; enter a nursing home and undergo some 
severe operation. Then they resume life as 
though nothing had happened. Their sur- 
roundings are unchanged; they have to fulfil 
all the duties of everyday life—even the con- 


jugal life is taken up once more. And these 
126 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


poor creatures, who are often ignorant of the 
nature of their illness, are plunged into de- 
spair because life seems to have lost its joy 
and interest. 

I ventured to observe to the doctor with 
whom I was conversing that it would be better 
for them if they died under the anesthetic. 
The surgeon reproved me, and _ inquired 
whether I was one of those people who 
thought that all born cripples ought to be put 
out of their misery at once. 

I did not quite see the connection of ideas; 
but I suppressed my desire to close his argu- 
ment by telling him of an example which is 
branded upon my memory. 

Poor Mathilde Bremer! I remember her 
so well before and after the operation. She 
was not afraid to die, because she knew her 
husband was devoted to her. But she kept 
saying to the surgeon: 

“You must either cure me or kill me. For 
my own sake and for his, I will not go on 
living this half-invalidish life.” 

She was pronounced “cured.” ‘Two years 
later she left her husband, very much against 

127 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


his will, but feeling she was doing the best for 
both of them. 

She once said tome: “There is no torture 
to equal that which a woman suffers when she 
loves her husband and is loved by him; a 
woman for whom her husband is all in all, 
who longs to keep his devotion, but knows she 
must fail, because physically she is no longer 
herself.” 

The life Mathilde Bremer is now leading 
—that of a solitary woman divorced from her 
husband—is certainly not enviable. Yet she 
admits that she feels far better than she used 


to do. 


* 
* * 


Any one might suppose I was on the way 
to become a rampant champion of the 
Woman’s Cause. May I be provided with 
some other occupation! I have quite enough 
to do to manage my own affairs. 

Heaven be eternally praised that I have no 
children, and have been spared all the ailments 
which can be “cured” by women’s specialists! 


* 
* 


128 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


Ye powers! How interminable a day can 
be! Surely every day contains forty-eight 
hours! 

I can actually watch the seconds oozing 
away, drop by drop. . . . Or rather, they fall 
slowly on my head, like dust upon a polished 
table. My hair is getting steadily greyer. 

It is not surprising, because I neglect it. 

But what is the use of keeping it artificially 
brown with lotions and pomades? Let it go 
grey! 

Torp has observed that I take far more 
pleasure in good cooking than I did at first. 

My dresses are getting too tight. I miss 


my masseuse. 


* 
* * 


To-day I inspected my linen cupboard 
with all the care of the lady superior 
of an aristocratic convent. I delighted in 
the spectacle of the snowy-white piles, 
and counted it all. I am careful with my 
money, and yet I like to have great sup- 
plies in the house. The more bottles, cases, 
and bags I see in the larder, the better pleased 

129 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


Iam. In that respect Torp and I are agreed. 
If we were cut off from the outer world by 
flood, or an earthquake, we could hold out 
for a considerable time. 
* 
* * 

If I had more sensibility, and a little 
imagination—even as much as Torp, who 
makes verses with the help of her hymn- 
book—I think I should turn my attention to 
literature. Women like to wade in their 
memories as one wades through dry leaves 
in autumn. I believe I should be very clever 
in opening a series of whited sepulchres, and, 
without betraying any personalities, I should 
collect my exhumed mummies under the gen- 
eral title of, “Woman at the Dangerous Age.” 
But besides imagination, I lack the necessary 
perseverance to occupy myself for long to- 
gether with other people’s affairs. 

* if * 
We most of us sail under a false flag; 


but it is necessary. If we were intended to be 
130 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


as transparent as glass, why were we born with 
our thoughts concealed? 

If we ventured to show ourselves as we 
really are, we should be either hermits, each 
dwelling on his own mountain-top, or crim- 
inals down in the valleys. 


* 
6 * 


Torp has gone to evening service. Angelic 
creature! She has taken a lantern with her, 
therefore we shall probably not see her again 
before midnight. In consequence of her re- 
ligious enthusiasm, we dined at breakfast- 
time. Yes, Torp knows how to grease the 
wheels of her existence! 

Naturally she is about as likely to attend 
church as] am. Her vespers will be read by 
one of the sailors whose ship has been laid up 
near here for the winter. Peace be with her 
—but I am dreadfully bored. 

I have a bitter feeling as though Jeanne and 
T were doing penance, each in a dark corner 
of our respective quarters. The Sundays of 
my childhood were not worse than this. 


In the distance a cracked, tinkling bell 
131 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


“tolls the knell of parting day.” Jeanne and 
I are depressed by it. I have taken up a 
dozen different occupations and dropped them 
all. | 

If it were only summer! I am oppressed 
as though I were sitting in a close bower of 
jasmine; but we are in mid-winter, and I 
have not used a drop of scent for months. 

But, after all, Sundays were no better in 
the Old Market Place. There I had Richard 
from morning till night. To be bored alone 
is bad; to be bored in the society of one other 
person is much worse. And to think that 
Richard never even noticed it! His inces- 
sant talk reminded me of a mill-wheel, and I 
felt as though all the flour was blowing into 
my eyes. 

* 


* * 


I will take a brisk constitutional. 


* 
ok k 


What is the matter with me? I am 
so nervous that I can scarcely hold my 


pen. I have never seen a fog come on so 
132 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


suddenly; I thought [ should never find 
my way back to the house. It is so thick 
I can hardly see the nearest trees. It has got 
into the room, and seems to be hanging from 
the ceiling. I am damp through and 
through. 

The fire has gone out, and I am freezing. 
It is my own fault; I ought to have rung for 
Jeanne, or put on some logs myself, but I 
could not summon up resolution even for 
that. 

What has become of Torp, that she is stay- 
ing out half the day? How will she ever find 
her way home? With twenty lanterns it 
would be impossible to see ten yards ahead of 
one. My lamp burns as though water was 
mixed with the oil. 

Overhead I hear Jeanne pacing up and 
down. I hear her, although she walks so 
lightly. She too is restless and upset. We 
have a kind of influence on each other, I have 
noticed it before. 

If only she would come down of her 
own accord. At least there would be two of 
us. : 

133 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


I feel the same cold shivers down my back 
that I remember feeling long ago, when my 
nurse induced me to go into a churchyard. I 
thought I saw all the dead coming out of their 
graves. That was a foggy evening, too. How 
strange it is that such far-off things return 
so clearly to the mind. 

The trees are quite motionless, as though 
they were listening for something. What do 
they hear? There is not a soul here—only 
Jeanne and myself. 

Another time I shall forbid Torp to make 
these excursions. If she must go to church, 
she shall go in the morning. 

It is very uncanny living here all alone in 
the forest, without a watch-dog, or a man near 
at hand. One is at the mercy of any passer- 
by. 

For instance, the other day, some tipsy 
sailors came and tried the handle of the front- 
door. ... But then, I was not in the least 
frightened; I even inspired Torp with cour- 
age. 

I have a feeling that Jeanne is sitting up- 
stairs in mortal terror. I sit here with my pen 

é 134 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


in my hand like a weapon of defence. If I 
could only make up my mind to ring... . 

There, it is done! My hand is trembling 
like an aspen leaf, but I must not let her see 
that I am frightened. I must behave as 
though nothing had happened. 

Poor girl! She rushed into the room with- 
out knocking, pale as a corpse, her eyes start- 
ing from her head. She clung to me like a 
child that has just awakened from a bad 
dream. 

What is the matter with us? We are both 
terrified. ‘The fog seems to have affected our 
wits. 

I have lit every lamp and candle, and they 
flicker fitfully, like Jeanne’s eyes. 

The fog is getting more and more dense. 
Jeanne is sitting on the sofa, her hand pressed 
to her heart, and I seem to hear it beating, 
even from here. 

I feel as though some one were dying near 
me—here in the room. 

Joergen, is it you? Answer me, is it you? 

Ah! I must have gone mad....I am 
not superstitious, only depressed. ; 

135 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


All the doors are locked and the shutters 
barred. There is notasound. I cannot hear 
anything moving outside. 

It is just this dead silence that frightens 
BS ow eas Eat. 8 weet EE Ie. os 


* 
* * 


Now Jeanne is asleep. I can hardly see 
her through the fog. 

She sits there like a shadow, an apparition, 
and the fog floats over her red hair like 
smoke over a fire. 

I know nothing whatever about her. She 
is as reserved about her own concerns as I am 
about mine. Yet I feel as though during this 
hour of intense fear and agitation I had seen 
into the depths of her soul. I understand 
her, because we are both women. She suffers 
from the eternal unrest of the blood. 

She has had a shock to her inmost feel- 
ings. At some time or other she has been so 
deeply wounded that she cannot live again in 
peace. 

She and I have so much in common that 


we might be blood-relations. But we ought 
136 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


not to live under the same roof as mistress and 


servant. 


* 
* * 


Gradually the fog is dispersing, and the 
lights burn brighter. I seem to follow 
Jeanne’s dreams as they pass beneath her brow. 
Her mouth has fallen a little open, as if she 
were dead. Every moment she starts up; but 
when she sees me she smiles and drops off 
again. Good heavens, how utterly exhausted 
she seems after these hours of fear! 

But somebody is there! Yes... outside 

. there between the trees. . . . I see some- 
body coming. ... 

It is only Torp, with her lantern, and the 
dressmaker from the neighbouring village. 
The moment she opened the basement door 
and I heard her voice I felt quite myself 
again. 


* 
* * 


We have eaten ravenously, like wolves. 
For the first time Jeanne sat at table with me 
and shared my meal. For the first and prob- 

137 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


ably for the last time. Torp opened her eyes 
very wide, but she was careful to make no ob- 
servations, 

My fit of madness to-night has taught me 
that the sooner I have a man of some kind to 
protect the house the better. 


* 
* * 


Jeanne has confided in me. She was too 
upset to sleep, and came knocking at my bed- 
room door, asking if she might come in. I 
gave her permission, although I was already 
in bed. She sat at the foot of my bed and told 
me her story. It is so remarkable that I must 
set in down on paper. 

Now I understand her nice hands and all 
her ways. I understand, too, how it came 
about that I found her one day turning over 
the pages of a volume by Anatole France, as 
though she could read French. 

Her parents had been married twelve years 
when she was born. When she was thirteen 
they celebrated their silver wedding. Until 
that moment in her life she had grown up in 
the belief that they were a perfectly united 

138 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


couple. The father was a chemist in a small 
town, and they lived comfortably. The silver 
wedding festivities took place in their own 
house. At dinner the girl drank some wine 
and felt it had gone to her head. She left 
the table, saying to her mother, “I am 
going to lie down in my room for a little 
while.” But on the way she turned so giddy 
that she went by mistake into a spare room 
that was occupied by a cavalry officer, a cousin 
of her mother’s. Too tired to go a step 
farther, she fell asleep on a sofa in the dark- 
ened room. A little later she woke, and heard 
the sounds of music and dancing downstairs, 
but felt no inclination to join in the gaiety. 
Presently she dropped off again, and when 
she roused for the second time she was aware 
of whispers near her couch. In the first mo- 
ment of awakening she felt ashamed of being 
caught there by some of the guests. She held 
her breath and lay very still. Then she rec- 
ognized her mother’s voice. After a few 
minutes she grasped the truth... . Her 
mother, whom she worshipped, and this of- 
ficer, whom she admired in a childish way! 
139 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


They lit the candles. She forced herself to 
lie motionless, and feigned to be fast asleep. 
She heard her mother’s exclamation of horror: 
“Jeanne!” And the captain’s words: 

“Thank goodness she is sleeping like a log!” 

Her mother rearranged her disordered hair, 
and they left the room. 

After a few minutes she returned with a 
lamp, calling out: 

“Jeanne, where are you, child? We have 
been searching all over the house!” 

Her pretended astonishment when she dis- 
covered the girl made the whole scene more 
painful to Jeanne. But gathering up her self- 
control as best she could, she succeeded in 
replying: 

“T am so tired: let me have my sleep out.” 

Her mother bent over her and kissed her 
several times. The child felt as though 
'she would die while submitting to these ca- 
resses. 

4[his one hour, with its cruel enlightenment, 
sufficed to destroy Jeanne’s joy in life for ever. 
At the same time it filled her mind with im- 


pure thoughts that haunted her night and day. 
140 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


She matured precociously in the atmosphere 
of her own despair. 

There was no one in whom she could con- 
fide; alone she bore the weight of a double 
secret, either of which was enough to crush 
her youth. 

She could not bear to look her mother in 
the face. With her father, too, she felt ill at 
ease, as though she had in some way wronged 
him. Everything was soiled for her. She 
had but one desire; to get away from home. 

About two years later her mother was 
seized with fatal illness. Jeanne could not 
bring herself to show her any tenderness. 
The piteous glance of the dying woman fol- 
lowed all her comings and goings, but she pre- 
tended not to see it. Once, when her father 
was out of the room, her mother called Jeanne 
to the bedside: 

“You know?” she asked. 

Jeanne only nodded her head & FERN: 

“Child, I am dying, forgive me.’ 

But Jeanne moved away from the bed wtih 
out answering the appeal. 

No sooner had the doctor pronounced life 

141 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


to be extinct than she felt a strange anxiety. 
In her great desire to atone in some way for 
her past harshness, the girl resolved that, no 
matter what befell her, she would do her 
best to hide the truth from her father. 

That night she entered the room where the 
dead woman lay, and ransacked every box and 
drawer until she found the letters she was 
seeking. ‘They were at the bottom of her 
mother’s jewel-case. Quickly she took posses- 
sion of them; but just as she was replacing the 
Case in its accustomed place, her father came 
in, having heard her moving about. She 
could offer no explanation of her presence, 
and had to listen in silence to his bitter accusa- 
tion: ‘Are you so crazy about trinkets that 
you cannot wait until your poor mother is laid 
in her grave?” 

In the course of that year one of the chem- 
ist’s apprentices seduced her. But she 
laughed in his face when he spoke of mar- 
riage. Later on she ran away with a com- 
mercial traveller, and neither threats nor per- 
suasion would induce her to return home. 


After this, more than once she sought in some 
142 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


fleeting connection a happiness which never 
came to her. The only pleasure she got out 
of her adventures was the power of dressing 
well. When at last she saw that she was not 
made for this disorderly life, she obtained a 
situation in a German family travelling to the 
south of Europe. 

There she remained until homesickness 
drove her back to Denmark. Her complete 
lack of ambition accounts for her being con- 
tented in this modest situation. 

She never made any inquiries about her 
father, and only knows that he left his money 
to other people, which does not distress her 
in the least. Her sole reason for going on 
living is that she shrinks from seeking death 
voluntarily. 

I wonder if there exists a man who could 
save her? A man who could make her forget 
the bitterness of the past? She assures me I 
am the only human being who has ever at- 
tracted her. If I were a man she would be 
devoted to me and sacrifice everything for my 
sake. 

It is a strange case. But I am very sorry 

143 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


for the girl. I have never come across such a 
peculiar mixture of coldness and ardour. 

When she had finished her story she went 
away very quietly. And I am convinced that 
to-morrow things will go on just as before. 
Neither of us will make any further allusion 
to the fog, nor to all that followed it. 


144 


SPRING. 

AM driven mad by all this singing and 

playing! One would think the steam- 

boats were driven by the force of song, 

and that atrocious orchestras were a new kind 

of motive power. From morning till night 

there is no cessation from patriotic choruses 
and folk-songs. 

Sometimes The Sound looks like a huge 
drying-ground in which all these red and 
white sails are spread out to air. 

How I wish these pleasure-boats were birds! 
I would buy a gun and practise shooting, in 
the hopes of killing a few. But this is the 
close season. ... The principal thorough- 
fares of a large town could hardly be more 
bustling than the sea just now—the sea that 
in winter was as silent and deserted as a grave- 
yard. 

People begin to trespass in my forest and to 
prowl round my garden. I see their inquisi- 
tive faces at my gates. I think I must buy a 

145 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


dog to frighten them away. But then I should 
have to put up with his howling after some 
dear and distant female friend. 


* 
* * 


How that gardener enrages me! His eyes 
literally twinkle with sneaky thoughts. I 
would give anything to get rid of him. 

But he moves so well! Never in my life 
have I seen a man with such a walk, and he 
knows it, and knows too that I cannot help 
looking at him when he passes by. 

Torp is bewitched. She prepares the most 
succulent viands in his honour. Her French 
cookery book is daily in requisition, and, 
judging from the savoury smells which mount 
from the basement, he likes his food well 
seasoned. 

Fortunately he is nothing to Jeanne, al- 
though she does notice the way he walks from 
his hips, and his fine carriage. 

Midday is the pleasantest hour now. Then 
the sea is quiet and free from trippers. Even 
the birds cease to sing, and the gardener takes 


his sleep. Jeanne sits on the verandah, as | 
146 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


have given her permission to do, with some 
little piece of sewing. She is making arti- 
ficial roses with narrow pink ribbon; a de- 
lightful kind of work. 


* 
* * 


147 


EAR PROFESSOR ROTHE, 

Your letter was such a shock to me 
that I could not answer it immedi- 
ately, as I should have wished to do. For that 
reason I sent you the brief telegram in reply, 
the words of which, I am sorry to say, I must 
now repeat: “I know nothing about the mat- 
ter.” Lillie has never spoken a word to me, 
or made the least allusion in my presence, 
which could cause me to suspect such a thing. 
I think I can truly say that I never heard her 

pronounce the name of Director Schlegel. 
My first idea was that my cousin had gone 
out of her mind, and [I was astonished that you 
—being a medical man—should not have 
come to the same conclusion. But on mature 
consideration (I have thought of nothing but 
Lillie for the last two days) I have changed 
my opinion. [ think I am beginning to un- 
derstand what has happened, but I beg you to 


remember that I alone am responsible for 
148 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


what I am going to say. I am only dealing 
with suppositions, nothing more. 

Lillie has not broken her marriage vows. 
Any suspicion of betrayal is impossible, hav- 
ing regard to her upright and loyal nature. 
If to you, and to everybody else, she appeared 
to be perfectly happy in her married life, it 
was because she really was so. I implore you 
to believe this. 

Lillie, who never told even a conventional 
falsehood, who watched over her children 
like an old-fashioned mother, careful of what 
they read and what plays they saw, how could 
she have carried on, unknown to you and to 
them, an intrigue with another manP Im- 
possible, impossible, dear Professor! I do not 
say that your ears played you false as to the 
words she spoke, but you must have put a 
wrong interpretation upon them. 

Not once, but thousands of times, Lillie has 
spoken to me about you. She loved and 
honoured you. You were her ideal as man, 
husband, and father. She was proud of you. 
Having no personal vanity or ambition, like 

149 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


so many good women, her pride and hopes 
were all centred in you. 

She used literally to become eloquent on 
the subject of your operations; and I need 
hardly remind you how carefully she followed 
your work. She studied Latin in order to un- 
derstand your scientific books, while, in spite 
of her natural repulsion from the sight of 
such things, she attended your anatomy classes 
and demonstrations, 

When Lillie said, “I love Schlegel, and 
have loved him for years,” her words did not 
mean ‘‘And all that time my love for you was 
extinct.” 7 

No, Lillie cared for Schlegel and for you 
too. ‘The whole question is so simple, and at 
the same time so complicated. 

Probably you are saying to yourself: “A 
woman must love one man or the other.” 
With some show of reason, you will argue: 
“Tn leaving my house, at any rate, she proved 
at the moment that Schlegel alone claimed her 
affection.” 

Nevertheless I maintain that you are wrong. 


Lillie showed every sign of a sane, well- 
150 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


balanced nature. Well, her famous equability 
and calm deceived us all. Behind this serene 
exterior was concealed the most feminine of 
all feminine qualities—a fanciful, visionary 
imagination. 

Do you or.I know anything about her first 
girlish dreams? Have you—in spite of your 
happy life together—ever really understood 
her innermost soul? Forgive my doubts, but 
I do not think you have. When a man 
possesses a woman as completely as you pos- 
sessed Lillie, he thinks himself quite safe. 
You never knew a moment’s doubt, or sup- 
posed it possible that, having you, she could 
wish for anything else. You believed that 
you fulfilled all her requirements. : 

How do you know that for years past Lillie 
has not felt some longings and deficiencies in 
her inner life of which she was barely con- 
scious, or which she did not understand? 

You are not only a clever and capable man; . 
you are kind, and an entertaining companion; | 
- in short, you have many good qualities which 
Lillie exalted to the skies. But your nature is 
not very poetical. You are, in fact, rather 

151 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


prosaic, and only believe what you see. Your 
judgments and views are not hasty, but just 
and decisive. 

Now contrast all this with Lillie’s immense 
indulgence. Whence did she derive this if not 
from a sympathetic understanding of things 
which we do not possess? You remember 
how we used to laugh when she defended some 
criminal who was quite beyond defence and 
apology! Something intense and far-seeking 
came into her expression on those occasions, 
and her heart prompted some line of argu- 
ment which reason could not support. 

She stood all alone in her sympathy, facing 
us, cold and sceptical people. 

But how she must have suffered! 

Then recollect the pleasure it gave her to 
discuss religious and philosophical questions. 
She was not “religious” in the common accep- 
tation of the word. But she liked to get to the 
bottom of things, and to use her imagination. 
We others were indifferent, or frankly bored, 
by such matters. 

And Lillie, who was so gentle and lacking 


in self-assertion, gave way to us. 
152 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


Recall, too, her passion for flowers. She 
felt a physical pang to see cut flowers with 
their stalks out of water. Once I saw her 
buy up the whole stock-in-trade of a flower- 
girl, because the poor things wanted water. 
Neither you nor your children have any love 
of flowers. You, as a doctor, are inclined to 
think it unhealthy to have plants in your 
rooms; consequently there were none, and 
Lillie never grumbled about it. 

Lillie did not care for modern music. 
César Franck bored her, and Wagner gave 
her a headache. Her favourite instrument 
was an old harpsichord, on which she played 
Mozart, while her daughters thundered out 
Liszt and Rubinstein upon a concert grand, 
and you, dear Professor, when in a good hu- 
mour, strode about the house whistling hor- 
ribly out of tune. 

Finally, Lillie liked quiet, musical speech, | 
and she was surrounded by people who talked 
at the top of their voices. 

“Absurd trifles,’ I can hear you saying. 
Perhaps. But they explain the fact that al- 
though she was happy in a way, she still had 

153 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


many aspirations which were not only unsatis- 
fied, but which, without meaning it unkindly, 
you daily managed to crush. 

Lillie never blamed others. When she 
found that you did not understand the things 
she cared for, she immediately tried to think 
she was in the wrong, and her well-balanced 
nature helped her to conquer her own predi- 
lections. 

She was happy because she willed to be 
happy. Once and for all she had made up 
her mind that she was the luckiest woman in 
existence ; happy in every respect; and she was 
deeply grateful to you. 

But in the depths of her heart—so deeply 
buried that perhaps it never rose to the sur- 
face even in the form of a dream—lay that 
secret something which led to the present mis- 
fortune. 

I know nothing of her relations with 
Schlegel, but I think I may venture to say 
that they were chiefly limited to intercourse of 
the soul; and for that reason they were so 
fatal. 

Have you ever observed the sound of 

154 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


Schlegel’s voice? He spoke slowly and so 
softly; I can quite believe it attracted your 
wife in the beginning; and that afterwards, 
gradually, and almost imperceptibly, she 
gravitated towards him. He possessed so 
many qualities that she admired and missed. 

The man is now at death’s door, and can 
never explain to us what passed between 
them—even admitting that there was anything 
blameworthy. As far as I know, Schlegel was 
quite infatuated with a totally different 
woman. Had he really been in love with 
Lillie, would he have been contented with a 
few words and an occasional pressure of her 
hand? ‘Therefore, since it is out of the ques- 
tion that your wife can have been unfaithful 
to you, I am inclined to think that Schlegel 
knew nothing of her feelings for him. 

You will reply that in that case it must all 
be gross exaggeration on Lillie’s part. But 
you, being a man, cannot understand how 
little satisfies a woman when her love is great 
enough, 

Why, then, has Lillie left you, and why 
does she refuse to give you an explanation? 

155 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


Why does she allow you to draw the worst 
conclusions? 

I will tell you: Lillie is in love with two 
men at the same time. Their different per- 
sonalities and natures satisfy both sides of her 
character. If Schlegel had not fallen from 
his horse and broken his back, thereby losing 
all his faculties, Lillie would have remained 
with you and continued to be a model wife and 
mother. In the same way, had you been the 
victim of the accident, she would have clean 
forgotten Schlegel, and would have lived and 
breathed for you alone. 

But fate decreed that the misfortune should 
be his. 

Lillie had not sufficient strength to fight 
the first, sharp anguish. She was bewildered 
by the shock, and felt herself suddenly in a 
false position. ‘The love on which her imagi- 
nation had been feeding seemed to her at the 
moment the true one. She felt she was be- 
traying you, Schlegel, and herself; and since 
self-sacrifice has become the law of her exist- 
ence, she was prepared to renounce every- 


thing as a proof of her love. 
156 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


As to you, Professor Rothe, you have acted 
very foolishly. You have done just what any 
average, conventional man would have done. 
Your injured vanity silenced the voice of your 
heart. 

You had the choice of two alternatives: 
either Lillie was mad, or she was responsible 
for her actions. You were convinced that 
she was quite sane and was playing you false 
in cold blood. She wished to leave you; then 
let her go. What becomes of her is nothing 
to you; you wash your hands of her hence- 
forth. 

You write that you have only taken your 
two elder daughters into your confidence. 
How could you have found it in your 
heart to do this, instead of putting them off 
with any explanation rather than the true 
one! 

Lillie knew you better than I supposed. 
She knew that behind your apparent kindness 
there lurked a cold and self-satisfied nature. 
She understood that she would be accounted 
a stranger and a sinner in your house the 
moment you discovered that she had a thought 

ee ys 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


or a sentiment that was not subordinated to 
your will. 

You have let her go, believing that she had 
been playing a pretty part behind your 
back, and that I was her confidante, and 
perhaps also the instigator of her wicked 
deeds. 

Lillie has taken refuge with her children’s 
old nurse. 

How significant! Lillie, who has as many 
friends as either of us, knows by a subtle in- 
stinct that none of them would befriend her 
in her misfortune. 

If you, Professor, were a large-hearted 
man, what would you do? You would ex- 
plain to the chief doctor at the infirmary 
Lillie’s great wish to remain near Schlegel un- 
til the end comes. 

Weigh what I am saying well. Lillie is, 
and will always remain the same. She loves 
you, and such a line of conduct on your part 
would fill her with grateful joy. What does 
it matter if during the few days or weeks that 
she is with this poor condemned man, who 


can neither recognize her, nor speak, nor make 
158 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


the least movement, you have to put up with 
some inconvenience? 

If Lillie had your consent to be near 
Schlegel, she would certainly not refuse to 
return to her wifely duties as soon as he was 
dead. It is possible that at first she might not 
be able to hide her grief from you; then it 
would be your task to help her win back her 
peace of mind. 

I know something of Schlegel; during the 
last few years I have seen a good deal of him. 
Without being a remarkable personality, 
there was something about him that attracted 
women. They attributed to him all the 
qualities which belonged to the heroes of their 
dreams. Do you understand mer I can be- 
lieve that a woman who admired strength and 
manliness might see in Schlegel a type of firm, 
inflexible manhood; while a woman attracted 
by tenderness might equally think him capable 
of the most yielding gentleness. ‘The secret 
probably lay in the fact that this man, who 
knew so many women, possessed the rare fac- 
ulty of taking each one according to her tem- 
perament. 

159 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


Schlegel was a living man; but had he been 
a portrait, or character in a novel, Lillie would 
have fallen in love with him just the same, be- 
cause her love was purely of the imagination. 

You must do what you please. But one 
thing I want you to understand: if you are not 
going to act in the matter, I shall do so. I 
willingly confess that I am a selfish woman; 
but I am very fond of Lillie, and if you 
abandon her in this cruel and clumsy way, I 
shall have her to live with me here, and I 
shall do my best to console her for the loss of 
an ungrateful husband and a pack of stupid, 
indifferent children. 

One word more before I finish my letter. 
Lillie, as far as I can recollect, is a year older 
than I am. Could you not—woman’s spe- 
cialist as you are—have found some explana- 
tion in this fact? Had Lillie been fifty-five 
or thirty-five, all this would never have hap- 
pened. I donot care for strangers to look into 
my personal affairs, and although you are my 
cousins husband you are practically a 
stranger to me. Nevertheless 1 may remind 


you that women at our time of life pass 
160 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


through critical moments, as I know by my 
daily experiences. The letter which I have 
written to you in a cool reasoning spirit might 
have been impossible a week or two ago. I 
should probably have reeled off pages of in- 
coherent abuse. 

Show Lillie that your pretended love was 
not selfishness pure and simple. 

With kind greetings, 

Yours sincerely, 
ELSIE LINDTNER. 


P.S.—I would rather not answer your per- 
sonal attacks. I could not have acted dif- 
ferently and I regret nothing. 


* 
* * 


To-morrow morning I will get rid of that 
gardener without fail. 

An extra month’s wages and money for his 
journey—whatever is necessary—so long as he 
goes. 

I wish to sleep in peace and to feel sure that 
my house is safely locked up, and I cannot 
sleep a wink so long as I know he comes to 


see Torp. 
16 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


That my cook should have a man in does 
not shock me, but it annoys me. It makes 
me think of things I wish to forget. 

I seem to hear them laughing and giggling 
downstairs. 

Madness! I could not really hear anything 
that was going on in the basement. The 
birds were restless, because the night is too 
light to let them sleep. The sea gleams un- 
der the silver dome of the moonlit sky. 

What is that? ... Ah! Miss Jeanne go- 
ing towards the forest. 

Her head looks like one of those beautiful 
red fungi that grow among the fir-trees. 

If the gardener had chosen her... . But 
iTorp! 

I should like to go wandering out into the 
woods and leave the house to those two crea- 
tures in the basement. But if I happened to 
meet Jeanne, what explanation could I give? 

It would be too ridiculous for both of us 
to be straying about in the forest, because 
Torp was entertaining a sweetheart in the 
basement! 


Doors and windows are wide open, and 
162 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


they are two floors below me, and yet I seem 
to smell the sour, disgusting odour of that 
man. Is it hysteria? ... 

No. I cannot sleep, and it is four in the 
morning. The sunrise is a glorious sight 
provided one is really in the mood to enjoy 
it. But at the present moment I should prefer 
the blackest night... . : 

There he goes! Sneaking away like a thief. 
Not once does he look back; and yet I am 
sure the hateful female is standing at the door, 
waving to him and kissing her hand. . . . 

But what is the matter with Jeanne? Poor 
girl, she has hidden behind a tree. She does 
not want to be seen by him; and she is quite 
right, it would be paying the boor too great 


an honour. 


* 
* % 


Merely to watch Richard eating was—or 
rather it became—a daily torture. He han- 
dled his knife and fork with the utmost refine- 
ment. Yet I would have given anything if he 
would have occasionally put his elbows on the 


table, or bitten into an unpeeled apple, or 
163 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


smacked his lips. ... Imagine Richard 
smacking his lips! 

His manners at table were invariably cor- 
rect. 

I shall never forget the look of tender re- 
proach he once cast upon me when I tore open 
a letter with my fingers, instead of waiting un- 
til he had passed me the paper-knife. Prob- 
ably it got upon his nerves in the same way 
that he got upon mine when he contemplated 
himself in the looking-glass. 

A spot upon the table-cloth annoyed and 
distracted him. He said nothing, but all the 
time he eyed the mark as though it was left 
from a murderer’s track. 

His mania for tidiness often forced me, 
against my nature, to a counteracting negli- 
gence. I intentionally disarranged the book- 
shelves in the library; but he would follow me 
five minutes afterwards and put everything in 
its place again. 

Yet had I really cared for him, this fussi- 
ness would have been an added charm in my 
eyes. 

- Was Richard always faithful to me? Or, 
164 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


if not, did he derive any pleasure from his 
lapses? Naturally enough he must have had 
many temptations; and although I, as a mere 
woman, was hindered by a thousand conven- 
tional reasons, he had opportunities and rea- 
sonable excuses for taking what was offered 
him. 

And probably he did not lose his chances; 
at any rate when he was away for long to- 
gether on business. But I am convinced that 
his infidelities were a sort of indirect homage 
to his lawful wife, and that he did not derive 
much satisfaction from them. I am _ not 
afraid of being compared with other women. 

After all, my good Richard may have re- 
mained absolutely true to me, thanks to his 
mania for having all things in order. 

I am almost sorry that I never caught him 
in some disgraceful infidelity. Discovery, 
confession, scenes, sighs, and tears! Who 
knows but what it might have been a very 
good thing for us? The certainty of his un- 
ceasing attentions to me was rather tame; and 
he did not gain much by it in the long run, 


poor man. 
165 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


The only time I ever remember to have felt 
jealous it was not a pleasant sensation, al- 
though I am sure there were no real grounds 
for it. It was brought about by his suggestion 
that we should invite Edith to go to Monaco 
with us. Richard went as white as a sheet 
when I asked him whether my society no 
longer sufficed for him. . . 

I cannot understand how any grown-up 
man can take a girl of seventeen seriously. 
They irritate me beyond measure. 


* 
* * 


Malthe has come back from Vienna, they 
tell me. I did not know he had been to 
Vienna. I thought all this time he had been 
at Copenhagen. 

It is strange how this news has upset me. 
What does it matter where he lives? 

If he were ten years younger, or I ten years 
older, I might have adopted him. It would 
not be the first time that a middle-aged woman 
has replaced her lap-dog in that way. Then 
I should have found him a suitable wife! I 


should have surrounded myself by a swarm of 
166 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


pretty girls and chosen the pick of the bunch 
for him. What a fascinating prospect! 


* 
*- 
I have never made a fool of myself, and 
I am not likely to begin now. 


* 
* * 


I begin to meet people in the forest—my 
forest. They gather flowers and break 
branches, and I feel as though they were rob- 
bing me. If only I could forbid people to 
walk in the forest and to boat on The Sound! 

It is quite bad enough to have the gardener 
prowling about in my garden. He is all over 
the place. The garden seems to have shrunk 
since he came. And yet, in spite of myself, I 
often stand watching the man when he is dig- 
ging. He has such muscular strength and 
uses it so skilfully. He puts on very humble 
airs in my presence, but his insolent eyes take 
in everything. 

Torp wears herself out evolving tasty dishes 
for him, and in return he plays cards with 


her. 
167 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


Jeanne avoids him. She literally picks up 
her skirts when she has to go past him. I like 
to see her do this. 


* 
* * 


This morning Jeanne and I laughed like 
two children. I was standing on the shore 
looking at the sea, and said absent-mindedly: 

“Tt must be splendid bathing here.” 

Jeanne replied: 

“Yes, if we had a bathing-hut.” 

And I, still absent-minded, murmured: 

“Yes, if we had a bathing-hut.” 

Suddenly we went off into fits of laughter. 
We could not stop ourselves. 

Now Jeanne has gone hunting for workmen. 
We will make them work by the piece, other- 
wise they will never finish the job. I had 
some experience this autumn with the youth 
who was paid by the day to chop wood for 
us. 
When the hut is built I will bathe every 
day in the sunshine. 


168 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


They are both master-carpenters, and seem 
to be very good friends. Jeanne and I lie in 
the boat and watch them, and stimulate them 
with beer from time to time. But it does not 
seem to have much effect. One has a wife and 
twelve children who are starving. When 
they have starved for a while, they take to 
begging. ‘The man sings like a lark. He has 
spent two years in America, but he assures me 
it is “all tommy-rot” the way they work like 
steam-engines there. Consequently he soon 
returned to his native land. 

“Denmark,” he says, “is such a nice little 
country, and all this water and the forests 
make it so pretty... .” 

Jeanne and I laugh at all this and amuse 
ourselves royally. 

The day before yesterday neither of the men 
appeared. A child had died on the island, 
and one of them, who is also a coffin-maker, 
had to supply a coffin. This seemed a reason- 
able excuse. But when I inquired whether 
the coffin was finished, he replied: 

“T bought one ready-made in the town 


. . saved me a lot of bother, that did.” 
169 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


His friend and colleague had been to the 
town with him to help him in his choice! 

The water is clear and the sands are white 
and firm. I am longing to try the bathing. 
Jeanne, who rows well, volunteered to take me 
out in the boat. But to bathe from the boat 
and near these men! I would rather wait! 


* 
* * 


Full moon. In the far distance boats go 
by with their white sails. ‘They glide through 
the dusk like swans on a lake. The silence 
is so intense that I can hear when a fish rises 
or a bird stirs in its nest. ‘The scent of the red 
roses that blossomed yesterday ascends to my 
window here... . 

Joergen Malthe.... 

When I write his name it is as though I 
gave him one of those caressing touches for 
which my fingers yearn and quiver. ... 

Yes, a dip in the sea will calm me. 

I will undress in the house and wrap my- 
self in my dressing-gown. ‘Then I can slip 
through the pine-trees unseen. . . 


* 
* * 


170 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


It was glorious, glorious! What do I want 
a bathing-hut for? I go into the sea straight 
from my own garden, and the sand is soft and 
firm to my feet like the pine-needles under the 
trees. 

The sea is phosphorescent; I seemed to be 
dipping my arms in liquid silver. I longed to 
splash about and make sparkles all around me. 
But I was very cautious. I swam only as far 
as the stakes to which the fishermen fasten 
their nets. The moon seemed to be suspended 
just over my head. 

I thought of Malthe. 

Ah, for one night! Just one night! 


* 
* * 


Jeanne has given me warning. I asked her 
why she wished to leave. She only shook 
her head and made no answer. She was 
very pale; I did not like to force her to 
speak. 

It will be very difficult to replace her. 
On the other hand, how can I keep her if she 
has made up her mind to gor Wages are no 
attraction to her. If I only knew what she 

171 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


wanted. I have not inquired where she is 
going. 


* 
* * 


Ah, now I understand! It is the restless- 
ness of the senses. She wants more life than 
she can get on this island. She knows I see 
through her, and casts her eyes downward 
when I look at her. 


172 


OERGEN MALTHE, 
J You are the only man I ever loved. 
And now, by means of this letter, I am 
digging a fathomless pit between us. I 
am not the woman you thought me; and my 
true self you could never love. 

I am like a criminal who has had recourse 
to every deceit to avoid confession, but whose 
strength gives way at last under the pressure of 
threats and torture, and who finds unspeak- 
able relief in declaring his guilt. 

Joergen Malthe, I have loved you for the 
last ten years; as long, in fact, as you have 
loved me. I lied to you when I denied it; but 
my heart has been faithful all through. 

Had I remained any longer in Richard’s 
house, I should have come to you one day and 
asked you to let me be your mistress. Not 
your wife. Do not contradict me. I am the 
stronger and wiser of the two. 

To escape from this risk I ran away. I 

173 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


fled from my love—I fled, too, from my age. I 
am now forty-three, you know it well, and 
you are only thirty-five. 

By this voluntary renunciation, I hoped to 
escape the curse that advancing age brings to 
most women. Alas! This year has taught 
me that we can neither deceive nor escape our 
destiny, since we carry it in our hearts and 
temperaments. 

Here I am, and here I shall remain, until 
I have grown to be quite an old woman. 
Therefore, it is very foolish of me to pour out 
this confession to you, for it cannot be other- 
wise than painful reading. But I shall have 
no peace of mind until it is done. 

My life has been poor. I have consumed 
my own heart. 

* , * 

As far as I am aware, my father, a widower, 
was a strictly honourable man. Misfortune 
befell him, and his whole life was ruined in a 
moment. An unexpected audit of the ac- 
counts of his firm revealed a deficiency. My 
father had temporarily borrowed a small sum 

174 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


to save a friend in a pressing emergency. 
Henceforward he was a marked man, at home 
and abroad. We left the town where we 
lived. The retiring pension which was 
granted to him in spite of what had happened 
sufficed for our daily needs. He lived lost in 
his disgrace, and I was left entirely to the care 
of a maid-servant. From her I gathered that 
our troubles were in some way connected with 
a lack of money; and money became the idol 
of my life. 

I sometimes buried a coin that had been 
given me—as a dog buries his bone. Then I 
lay awake all night, fearing I should not find 
it again in the morning. 

I was sent to school. A classmate said to 
me one day: 

“Of course, a prince will marry you, for 
you are the prettiest girl here.” 

I carried the words home to the maid, who 
nodded her approval. 

‘“That’s true enough,” she said. “A pretty 
face is worth a pocketful of gold.” 

“Can one sell a pretty face, then?” If 
asked. 

175 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


“Yes, child, to the highest bidder,” she re- 
plied, laughing. 

From that moment I entered upon the ac- 
cursed cult of my person which absorbed the 
rest of my childhood and all my first youth. 
To become rich was henceforth my one and 
only aim in life. I believed I possessed the 
means of attaining my ends, and the thought 
of money was like a poison working in my 
blood. 

At school I was diligent and obedient, for I 
soon saw it paid best in the long run. I was 
delighted to see that I attracted the attention 
of the masters and mistresses, simply because 
of my good looks. I took in and pondered 
over every word of praise that concerned my 
appearance. But I put on airs of modesty, 
and no one guessed what went on within me. 

I avoided the sun lest I should get freckles. 
I collected rain-water for washing. I slept 
in gloves; and though I adored sweets, I re- 
frained from eating them on account of my 
teeth. I spent hours brushing my hair. 

At home there was only one looking-glass. 
It was in my father’s room, which I seldom 

176 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


entered, and was hung too high for me to use. 
In my pocket-mirror I could only see one eye 
atatime. But I had so much self-control that 
I resisted the temptation to stop and look at 
my reflection in the shop windows on my way 
to and from school. 

I was surprised when I came home one day 
to find that the large mirror in its gold frame 
had been given over to me by my father and 
was hanging in my room. I made myself 
quite ill with excitement, and the maid had 
to put me to bed. But later on, when the 
house was quiet, I got up and lit my lamp. 
Then I spent hours gazing at my own reflec- 
tion in the glass. 

Henceforth the mirror became my con- 
fidant. It procured me the one happiness of 
my childhood. When I was indoors I passed 
most of my time practising smiles, and form- 
ing my expression. I was seized with terror 
lest I should lose the gift that was worth “a 
pocketful of gold.” 

I avoided the wild and noisy games of other 
girls for fear of getting scratched. Once, 
however, I was playing with some of my 

177 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


school friends in a courtyard. We were 
swinging on the shafts of a cart when I fell 
and ran a nail into my cheek. The pain was 
nothing compared to the thought of a per- 
manent mark. I was depressed for months, 
until one day I heard a teacher say that the 
mark was all but gone—a mere beauty spot. 

When I sat before the looking-glass, I only 
thought of the future. Childhood seemed to 
me a long, tiresome journey that must be got 
through before I reached the goal of riches, 
which to me meant happiness. 

Our house overlooked the dwelling of the 
chief magistrate. It was a white building in 
the style of a palace, the walls of which were 
covered in summer-time with roses and clem- 
atis, and to my eyes it was the finest and 
most imposing house in the world. 

It was surrounded by park-like grounds 
with trim lawns and tall trees. An iron rail- 
ing with gilded spikes divided it from the 
common world. 

Sometimes when the gate was standing open 
I peeped inside. It seemed as though the 
house came nearer and nearer to me. I 

178 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


caught a glimpse in the basement of white- 
capped serving-maids, which seemed to me 
the height of elegance. It was said that the 
yellow curtains on the ground floor were pure 
silk. As to the upstairs rooms, the shutters 
were generally closed. These apartments had 
not been opened since the death of Herr von 
Brincken’s wife. He rarely entertained. 

Sometimes while I was watching the house, 
Herr von Brincken would come riding home 
accompanied by a groom. He always bowed 
to me, and occasionally spoke a few words. 
One day an idea took possession of me, with 
such force that I almost involuntarily ex- 
claimed aloud. My brain reeled as I said to 
myself, “Some day I will marry the great 
man and live in that house!” 

This ambition occupied my thoughts day 
and night. Other things seemed unreal. I 
discovered by accident that Herr von Brincken 
often visited the parents of one of my school- 
mates. I took great pains to cultivate her ac- 
quaintance, and we became inseparable. 

Although I was not yet confirmed, I suc- 
ceeded in getting an invitation to a party at 

179 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


which Von Brincken was to be present. At 
that time I ignored the meaning of love; I had 
not even felt that vague, gushing admiration 
that girls experience at that age. But when at 
table this man turned his eyes upon me with a 
look of astonishment, I felt uncomfortable, 
with the kind of discomfort that follows after 
eating something unpleasant. Later in the 
the evening he came and talked to me, and I 
managed to draw him on until he asked 
whether I should like to see his garden. 

A few days later he called on my father, 
who was rather bewildered by this honour, 
and asked permission to take me to the garden. 
He treated me like a grown-up person, and 
after we had inspected the lawns and borders, 
and looked at the ripening bunches in the 
grape-house, I felt myself half-way to become 
mistress of the place. It never occurred to 
me that my plans might fall through. 

At the same time it began to dawn upon 
me that the personality of Von Brincken, or 
rather the difference of our ages, inspired me 
with a kind of disgust. In spite of his style 


and good appearance, he had something of 
180 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


the “elderly gentleman” about him. This 
feeling possessed me when we looked over the 
house. In every direction there were lofty 
mirrors, and for the first time in my life I saw 
myself reflected in full-length—and by my 
side an old man. 

This was the beginning. A year later, after 
I had been confirmed, I was sent to a finishing 
school at Geneva at Von Brincken’s expense. 
I had not the least doubt that he meant to 
marry me as soon as my education was com- 
pleted. 

The other girls at the school were full of 
spirits and enthusiastic about the beauties of 
nature. JI was a poor automaton. Neither 
lakes nor mountains had any fascination for 
me. I simply lived in expectation of the day 
when the bargain would be concluded. 

When two years later I returned to Den- 
mark, our engagement, which had been con- 
cluded by letter, was made public. His first 
hesitating kiss made me shudder; but I com- 
pelled myself to stand before the looking-glass 
and receive his caresses in imagination with- 


out disturbing my artificially radiant smile. 
181 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


Sometimes I noticed that he looked at me 
in a puzzled kind of way, but I did not pay 
much attention to it. The wedding-day 
was actually fixed when I received a letter 
beginning: 


“My Dear ELSIE, 

“T give you back your promise. You do 
not love me. 

“You do not realize what love is... .” 

This letter shattered all my hopes for the 
future. I could not, and would not, relin- 
quish my chances of wealth and position. 
Henceforth I summoned all my will-power 
in order to efface the disastrous impression 
caused by my attitude. I assured my future 
husband that what he had mistaken for want 
of love was only the natural coyness of my 
youth. He was only too ready to believe me. 
We decided to hasten the marriage, and his 
delight knew no bounds. 

One day I went to discuss with him some 
details of the marriage settlements. We had 


champagne at lunch, and I, being quite un- 
182 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


used to wine, became very lively. Life ap- 
peared to me in a rosy light. Arm in arm, we 
went over the house together. He had or- 
dered all the lights to be lit. At length we 
passed through the room that was to be our 
conjugal apartment. Misled, no doubt, by 
my unwonted animation, and perhaps a little 
excited himself by the wine he had taken, he 
forgot his usual prudent reserve, and em- 
braced me with an ardour he had never yet 
shown. His features were distorted with 
passion, and he inspired me with repugnance. 
I tried to respond to his kisses, but my dis- 
gust overcame me and I nearly fainted. When 
I recovered, I tried to excuse myself on the 
ground that the champagne had been too 
much for me. 

Von Brincken looked long and searchingly 
at me, and said in a sad and tired voice, which 
I shall never forget: 

“Yes, you are right. ... Evidently you 
cannot stand my champagne.” 

The following morning two letters were 
brought from his house. One was for my 


father, in which Von Brincken said he felt 
183 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


obliged to break off the engagement. He was 
suffering from a heart trouble, and a recent 
medical examination had proved to him that 
he would be guilty of an unpardonable wrong 
in marrying a young girl. 

To me he wrote: 

“You will understand why I give a fictitious 
reason to your father and to the world in 
general. I should be committing a moral 
murder were I to marry you under the circum- 
stances. My love for you, great as it is, is 
not great enough to conquer the instinctive 
repugnance of your youth.” 

Once again he sent me abroad at his own 
expense. This time, at my own wish, I went 
to Paris, where I met a young artist who fell 
in love with me. Had I not, in the saddest 
way, ruled out of my life everything that 
might interfere with my ambitious projects, I 
could have returned his passion. But he was 
poor; and about the same time I met Richard. 
I cheated myself, and betrayed my first love, 
which might have saved me, and changed me 
from an automaton into a living being. 

Under the eyes of the man who had stirred 

184 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


my first real emotions, I proceeded to draw 
Richard on. My first misfortune taught me 
wisdom. This time I had no intention of 
letting all my plans be shattered. 

When I look back on that time, I see that 
my worst sin was not so much my resolve to 
sell myself for money, as my aptitude for 
playing the contemptible comedy of pretended 
love for days and months and years. I, who 
only felt a kind of indifference for Richard, 
which sometimes deepened into disgust, pre- 
tended to be moved by genuine passion. Yes, 
I have paid dearly, very dearly, for my golden 
cage in the Old Market. 

Richard is not to blame. He could not 
have suspected the truth. . 

It is so fatally easy for a woman to simulate 
love. Every intelligent woman knows by 
infallible instinct what the man who loves 
her really wants in return. The woman of 
ardent temperament knows how to appear re- 
served with a lover who is not too emotional; 
while a cold woman can assume a passionate 
air when necessary. ; 


I, Joergen, I, who for years cared for no one 
185 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


but myself, have left Richard firmly con- 
vinced to this day that I was greedy of his 
caresses. 

You are an honest man, and what I have 
been telling you will come as a‘shock. You 
will not understand it, or me. 

Yet I think that you, too, must have known 
and possessed women without loving them. 
But that is not the same. If it were, my guilt 
would be less. 

I allowed my senses to be inflamed, while 
my mind remained cold, and my heart con- 
tracted with disgust. I consciously profaned 
the sacred words of love by applying them to 
a man whom I chose for his money. 

Meanwhile I developed into the frivolous 
society woman everybody took me to be. 
Every woman wears the mask which best suits 
her purpose. My mask was my smile. I did 
not wish others to see through me. Some- 
times, during a sudden silence, I have caught 
the echo of my own laugh—that laugh in 
which you, too, delighted—and hearing it I 
have shuddered. 


No! That is not quite true. I was 2 
186 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


different woman with you. A real, living 
creature lived and breathed behind the mask. 
You taught me to live. You looked into my 
eyes, and heard my real laughter. 

How many hours we spent together, Joer- 
gen, you and I! But we did not talk much; 
we never came to the exchange of ideas. I 
hardly remember anything you ever said; al- 
though I often try to recall your words. How 
did we pass the happy time together? 

You are the only man I ever loved. 

When we first got to know each other you 
were five-and-twenty. So young—and I was 
eight years your senior. We fell in love with 
each other at once. 

You had no idea that I cared for you. 

From that moment I was a changed woman. 
Not better perhaps, but quite different. A 
thousand new feelings awoke in: me; I saw, 
heard, and felt in an entirely new way. All 
humanity assumed a new aspect. I, who had 
hitherto been so indifferent to the weal or woe 
of my fellow-creatures, began to observe and 
to understand them. I became sympathetic. 
Towards women—not towards men. I do not 

187 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


understand the male sex, and this must be 
my excuse for the way in which I have so often 
treated men. For me there was, and is, only 
one man in the world: Joergen Malthe. 

At first I never gave a thought to the dif- 
ference in our ages. We were both young 
then. But you were poor. No one, least of 
all myself, guessed that you carried a field- 
marshal’s baton in your knapsack. Money 
had not brought me happiness; but poverty 
still seemed to me the greatest misfortune that 
could befall any human being. 

Then you received your first important 
commission, and I ventured to dream dreams 
for us both. I never dreamt of fame and 
honour; what did I care whether you car- 
ried out the restoration of the cathedral or 
not? The pleasure I showed in your talent 
I did not really feel. It was not to the man 
as artist, but as lover, that my heart went 
out. 

Later, you had a brilliant future before you; 
one day you would make an income sufficient 
for us both. But you seemed so utterly in- 


different to money that I was disappointed. 
188 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


My dreams died out like a fire for want of 
fuel. 

Had you proposed that I should become 
your mistress, no power on earth would have 
held me back. But you were too honourable 
even to cherish the thought. Besides, I let 
you suppose I was attached to my hus- 
band. ... 

I knew well enough that the moment you 
became aware of my feelings for you, you 
would leave no stone unturned until you 
could legitimately claim me as your wife. 
... Such is your nature, Joergen Malthe! 

So I let happiness go by. 


*% 
* Eo 


Two years ago Von Brincken died, leaving 
me a considerable share of his fortune—and 
a letter, written on the night of the day when 
we last met. 

I might then have left Richard. Your con- 
stancy would have been a sufficient guaran- 
tee for my future. 

A mere accident destroyed my illusions., A 
friend of my own age had recently married 

189 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


an officer much younger than herself. At the 
end of a year’s happiness he left her; and 
society, far from pitying her, laughed at her 
plight. 

This drove me to make my supreme resolve 
—to abandon, and flee from, the one love of 
my life. 

Joergen, I owe you the best hours I have 
known: those hours in which you showed me 
the plans for the “White Villa.” 

I feel a bitter, yet unspeakable joy when I 
think that you yourself built the walls within 
which I am living in solitary confinement. 

Once I longed for you with a consuming 
ardour. 

Now, alas, I am but a pile of burnt-out 
ashes. The winds of heaven have dispersed 
my dreams. 

I go on living because it is not in my nature 
to do away with myself. I live, and shall con- 
tinue to live. 

If only you knew what goes on within me, 
and how low I have sunk that I can write this 
confession | 

There are thoughts that a woman can never 

190 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


reveal to the man she loves—even if her own 
life and his were at stake... . 

It is night. The stars are bright over- 
head. Joergen Malthe, why have I written 
all this to your . . . What do I really want 
of your 3). | 


% 
*% * 


No, no! ... never in this world... . 

You shall never read this letter. Never, 
never! What need you know more than that 
I love you? I love you! I love you! 

I will write to you again, calmly, humbly, 
and tell you the simple truth: I was afraid 
of the future, and of the time when you 
would cease to love me. That is what I fled 
from. 

I still fear the future, and the time when 
you will love meno more. But all my powers 
of resistance are shattered by this one truth: 
I love. For the first and only time in my 
life. Therefore I implore you to come to me; 
but now, at once. Do not wait a week or 
a month. My lime trees are fragrant with 
blossom. I want you, Joergen, now, while 

Ig! 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


the limes are flowering. Then, what you ask 
of me shall be done. 

If you want me for a wife, I will follow 
you as the women of old followed their lords 
and masters, in joyful submission. But if you 
only care to have me for a time, I will prepare 
the house for my desired guest. 

Whatever you decide to do will be such 
an immense joy that I tremble lest anything 
should happen to hinder its fulfilment... . 

Then let the years go by! Then let age 
come to me! 

I shall have sown so many memories of 
you and happiness that I shall have hence- 
forth a forest of glad thoughts, wherein to 
wander and take my rest till Death comes to 
claim me. 

The sun is flashing on the window-panes; 
the sunbeams seem to be weaving threads of 
joy in rainbow tints. 

You child! How I love you!... 

Come to me and stay with me—or go when 
we have had our hour of delight. 


192 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


The letter has gone. Jeanne has rowed to 
the town with it. 

She looked searchingly at me when I gave 
it to her and told her to hurry so that she 
should not lose the evening post. Both of us 
had tears in our eyes. 

I will never part with Jeanne. Her place 
is with me—and with him. I stood at the 
window and watched her pull away in the 
little white boat. She pulled so hard at the 
oars. If only she is strong enough to keep 
itup. ... It is a long way to the town. 

Never has the evening been so calm. 
Everything seems folded in rest and silence. 
There lies a majesty on sky and earth. I 
wandered at random in the woods and fields, 
and scarcely seemed to feel the ground be- 
neath my feet. The flowers smell so sweet, 
and I am so deeply moved. 

How can I sleep! I feel I must remain 
awake until my letter is in his hands. 

Now it is speeding to him through the quiet 
night. The letter yearns towards him as I do 
myself. : 

I am young again. . . . Yes, young, young! 

193 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


. . . How blue is the night! Not a single 
light is visible at sea. 

If this were my last night on earth I would 
not complain. I feel my happiness draw- 
ing so near that my heart seems to open and 
drink in the night, as thirsty plants drink up 
the dew. 

All that was has ceased to be. I am Elsie 
Bugge once more, and stand on the threshold 
of life in all its expanse and beauty. 


* 
* * 


He is coming. ... 

He will come by the morning train. It 
seems too soon. 

Why did he not wait a day or two? I want 
time to collect myself. There is so much to 
On sins 


How my hands tremble! 


* 
* * 
I carry his telegram next my heart. Now 
I feel quite calm. Why will Jeanne insist on 
my going to bed? I am not ill. 
194 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


She says it is useless to arrange the flowers 
in the vases to-night, they will be faded by 
to-morrow. But can I rely on Torp’s seeing 
that we have enough food in the house? My 
head is swimming.... The grass wants 
mowing, and the hedge must be cut.... 
Ah! What a fool I am! As though he 


Jeanne asks, “Where will the gentleman 
sleep?” I cannot answer the question. I 
see she is getting the little room upstairs ready 
forhim. The one that has most sun. 


* 
* * 


Has Jeanne read my thoughts? She pro- 
poses to sleep downstairs with Torp so long 
as I have “company.” 


* 
* * 


I have begun a long letter to Richard, and 
that has passed the time so well. I wish he 
could find some dear little creature who would 
sweeten life for him. He is a good soul. 
During the last few days I seem to have started 
a kind of affection for him. 

195 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


We will travel a great deal, Joergen and I. 
Hitherto I have seen nothing on my many trips 
abroad. Joergen must show me the world. 
We will visit all the places he once went to 
alone. 

Now I understand the doubting apostle 
Thomas. Until my eyes behold I dare not 
believe. 

Joergen has such a big powerful head! I 
sometimes feel as though I were clasping it 
with both my hands. 


* 
* * 


Torp suggests that to-morrow we should 
have the same menu that she prepared when 
the “State Councillor” entertained Prince 
Waldemar. Well! Provided she can get all 
she wants for her creations! She can amuse 
herself at the telegraph office as far as | am 
concerned. I am willing to help her; at any 
rate, I can stir the mayonnaise. 


* 
¥ * 


How stupid of me to have given Lillie 


my tortoiseshell combs! How can I ask to 
196 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


have them back without seeming rude? Joer- 
gen was used to them; he will miss them at 
once. 

I have had out all my dresses, but I cannot 
make up my mind what to wear. I cannot 
appear in the morning in a dinner dress, and 
a white frock—at my age! ... After all, 
why not? ... The white embroidered one 

. it fits beautifully. I have never worn it 
since Joergen’s last visit to us in the country. 
It has got a little yellow from lying by, but 
he will never notice it. 


* 
* * 


To-night J will sleep—sleep like a top. 
Then I shall wake, take my bath, and go for 
a long walk. When I come home, I will sit 
in the garden and watch until the white boat 
appears in the distance. 


* 
* * 


I had to take a dose of veronal, but I man- 
aged to sleep round the clock, from 9 P.M. 
to 9. A.M. The gardener has gone off in the 


boat; and I have two hours in which to dress. 
197 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


What is the matter with me? Now that 
my happiness is so close at hand, I feel 
strangely depressed. 


* 
% * 
Jeanne advises a little rouge. No! Joer- 
gen loves me justas[ am.... 


* 
* * 


How he will laugh at me when he hears 
that I cried because I cannot get into the 
white embroidered dress nowadays! It is my 
own fault; I eat too much and do not take 
enough exercise. 

I put on another white dress, but I am very 
disappointed, for it does not suit me nearly 
as well. 


* 
* 5 


I see the boat. ... 


198 


TWO DAYS LATER. 

E came by the morning train, and 
left the same evening. That was the 
day before yesterday, and I have 

never slept since. Neither have I thought. 
There is time enough before me for thought. 

He went away the same evening; so at least 
I was spared the night. 

I have burnt his letter unread. What could 
it tell me that I did not already know? Could 
it hold any torture which I have not already 
suffered? : 

Do I really suffer? Have [I not really be- 
come insensible to pain? Once the cold moon 
was a burning sun; her own central fires con- 
sumed it. Now she is cold and dead; her 
light a mere reflection and a falsehood. 


* 
* * 


His first glance told me all. He cast down 
his eyes so that he might not hurt me again. 
... And I—coward that I was—I ac- 

199 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


cepted without interrupting him the tender 
words he spoke, and even his caress... . 

But when our eyes met a second time we 
both knew that all was at an end between us. 

One reads of “tears of blood.” During the 
few hours he spent in my house I think we 
smiled “smiles of blood.” 

When we sat opposite to each other at table, 
we might have been sitting each side a 
deathbed. We only attempted to speak when 
Jeanne was waiting at table. 

When we parted, he said: 

“T feel like the worst of criminals!” 

He has not committed a crime. He loved 
me once, now he no longer loves me. That 


is all. 


* 
* * 


But after what has happened I cannot re- 
main here. Everything will remind me of 
my hours of joyful waiting; of my hours of 
failure and abasement. 

Where can I go to hide my shame? 


* 
* * 


200 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 
Richard. ... 


* 
a * 


Would that be too humiliating? Why 


should it be? Did I not give him my prom- 
ise: “If I should ever regret my resolu- 
tion,” I said to him. 


* 
% * 


I will write to’ him, but first I must gather 
up my strength again. Jeanne goes long 
walks with me. We do not talk to each other, 
but it comforts me to find her so faithful. 


* 
* * 


EAR RICHARD, 
It is a long time since I wrote to 
you, but neither have you been quite 
so zealous a correspondent this summer, so it 
is tit for tat. 

I often think of you, and wonder how you 
are really getting on in your solitude. 
Whether you have been living in the country 
and going up to town daily? Or if, like most 
of the “devoted husbands,” you still only run 
down to the cottage for week-ends? 

If I were not absolutely free from jealousy, 
in any form, I should envy you your new car. 
This neighbourhood is charming, but to ex- 
plore it in a hired carriage, lined with dirty 
velvet, does not attract me. Now, dear 
friend, don’t go and send off car and chauffeur 
post-haste to me. That would be like your 
good nature. But, of course, I am only jok- 
ing. 

Send me all the news of the town. I read 


the papers diligently, but there are items of 
202 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


interest which do not appear in the papers! 
Above all, tell me how things are going with 
Lillie. Will she soon be coming home? Do 
you think her conduct was much talked of out- 
side her own circle? People chatter, but they 
soon forget. 

Homes for nervous cases are all very well in 
their way; but I think our good Hermann 
Rothe went to extremes when he sent her to 
one. He is furious with me, because I told 
him what I thought in plain words. Natu- 
rally he did not in the least understand what 
I was driving at. But I think I made him see 
that Lillie had never been faithless to him in 
the physiological meaning of the word—and 
that is all that matters to men of his stamp. 

I am convinced that Lillie would not have 
suffered half so much if she had really been 
unfaithful in the ordinary sense. 

But to return to me and my affairs. 

You cannot imagine what a wonderful busi- 
ness-woman the world has lost in me. Not 
only have I made both ends meet—I, who 
used to dread my Christmas bills—but I have 


so much to the good in solid coin of the realm 
203 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


that I could fill a dozen pairs of stockings. 
And I keep my accounts—think of that, Rich- 
ard! Every Monday morning Torp appears 
with her slate and account-book, and they must 
balance to a farthing. 

I bathe once or twice a day from my cosey 
little hut at the end of the garden, and in the 
evening I row about in my little white boat. 
Everything here is so neat and refined that 
I am sure your fastidious soul would rejoice 
to see it. Here I never bring in any mud 
on my shoes, as I used to do in the country, 
to your everlasting worry. And here the 
books are arranged tidily in proper order on 
the shelves. You would not be able to find 
a speck of dust on the furniture. 

Of course the gardener from Frijsenborg, 
about whom I have already told you, is now 
courting Torp, and I am expecting an invita- 
tion to the wedding one of these next days. 
Otherwise he is very competent, and my vege- 
tables are beyond criticism. 

Personally, I should have liked to rear 
chickens, but Torp is so afflicted at the idea 


of poultry-fleas that she implored me not to 
204 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


keep fowls. Now we get them from the 
schoolmaster who cannot supply us with all 
we want. 

I have an idea which will please you, 
Richard. 

What if you paid me a short visit? With- 
out committing either of us—you understand? 
Just a brief, friendly meeting to refresh our 
pleasant and unpleasant memories? 

I am dying for somebody to speak to, and 
who could I ask better than yourself? 

But, just to please me, come without saying 
a word to anyone. Nobody need know that 
you are on a visit to your former wife, need 
they? Weare free to follow our own fancies, 
but there is no need to set people gossiping. 

Who knows whether the time may not come 
when I may take my revenge and keep the 
promise I made you the last evening we spent 
together? When two people have lived to- 
gether as long as we have, separation is a mere 
figure of speech. People do not separate after 
twenty-two years of married life, even if each 
goes a different road for a time. 


But why talk of the future. The present 
205 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


concerns us more nearly, and interests me far 
more, 

Come, then, dear friend, and I will give 
you such a welcome that you will not regret 


the journey. 


* 
* * 


_ Joergen Malthe paid me a flying visit last 
week. Business brought him into the neigh- 
bourhood, and he called unexpectedly and 
spent an hour with me. 

I must say he has altered, and not for the 
better. 

I hope he will not wear himself out prema- 
turely with all his work. 

If you should see him, do not say I men- 
tioned his visit. It was rather painful. He 
was shy, and I, too, was nervous. One cannot 
spend a whole year alone on an island without 
feeling bewildered by the sudden apparition 
of a fellow-creature..... 

Tell your chauffeur to get the car ready. 
Should you find the neighbourhood very fas- 
cinating, you could always telegraph to him 


to bring it at once. 
206 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


If the manufactory, or any other plans, pre- 
vent your coming, send me a few lines. Till 
we meet, 


Your ELSIE, 


who perhaps after all is not suited to a her- 
mit’s life. 


* 
* * 


So he has dared! ... 

So all his passion, and his grief at parting, 
were purely a part that he played! . . . Who 
knows? Perhaps he was really glad to get 
rid of me. ys. 

Ah, but this scorn and contempt! .. . 

Elsie Lindtner, do you realise that in the 
same year, the same month, you have offered 
yourself to two men in succession and both 
have declined the honour? Luckily there is 
no one else to whom you can abase yourself. 

One of these days, depend upon it, Richard 
will eat his heart out with regret. But then 
it will be too late, my dear man, too late! 

That he should have dared to replace me 
by a mere chit of nineteen! 

207 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


The whole town must be laughing at him. 
And I can do nothing. .. . 

But I am done for. Nothing is left to me, 
but to efface myself as soon as possible. I 
cannot endure the thought of being pitied by 
anyone, least of all by Richard. 

How badly I have played my cards! I who 
thought myself so clever! 

Good heavens! I understand the women 
who throw vitriol in the face of a rival. Un- 
happily I am too refined for such reprisals. 

But if I had her here—whoever she may be 
—I would crush her with a look she could 


never forget. 


* 
* * 


Jeanne has agreed to go with me. 
Nothing remains but to write my letter— 
and depart! 


* 
* % 


EAREST RICHARD, 

How your letter amused me, and 
how delighted I am to hear your in- 
teresting intelligence. You could not have 
given me better news. In future I am re- 
lieved of all need of sympathetic anxiety 
about you, and henceforth I can enjoy my free- 
dom without a qualm, and dispose of life just 

as I please. 

Every good wish, dear friend! We must 
hope that this young person will make you 
very happy; but, you know, young girls have 
their whims and fancies. Fortunately, you 
are not only a good-looking man in the prime 
of life, but also an uncommonly good match 
for any woman. The young girls of the pres- 
ent day are seldom blind to such advantages, 
and you will find her devotion very lasting, I 
have no doubt. 

Who can she ber? I have not the least idea. 
But I admire your discretion—you have not 
changed in that respect. In any case, be pre- 

209 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


pared, Richard, she will turn the house upside 
down and your work will be cut out for you to 
get it straight again. 

I am sure she bikes; she will probably drop 
her cigarette ashes into your best Venetian 
glasses ; she is certain to hate goloshes and long 
skirts, and will enjoy rearranging the furni- 
ture. Well, she will be able to have fine times 
in your spacious, well-ordered establish- 
ment! 

I hope at any rate that you will be able 
to keep her so far within bounds that she will 
not venture to chaff you about “number one.” 
Do not let her think that my taste predomi- 
nates in the style and decorations of the 
DOUSE.: i656) 44 

Dear friend, already I see you pushing the 
perambulator! Do you remember the lu- 
dicrous incident connected with the fat mer- 
chant Bang, who married late in life and was 
always called “gran’pa” by his youthful 
progeny? Of course, that will not happen 
in your case—you are a year or two younger 
than Bang, so your future family will more 
probably treat you like a playfellow. 


210 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


You see, I am quite carried away by my 
surprise and delight. 

If it were the proper thing, I should im- 
mensely like to be at the wedding; but I 
know you would not allow such a breach of 
all the conventions. 

Where are you going for the honeymoon? 
You might bring her to see me here occa- 
sionally, in the depths of the country, so long 
as nobody knew. 

One of my first thoughts was: how does 
she dress? Does she know how to do her 
hair? Because, you know, most of the girls 
in our particular set have the most weird 
notions as regards hair-dressing and frocks. 

However, I can rely on the sureness of your 
taste, and if your wedding trip takes you to 
Paris, she will see excellent models to copy. 

Now I understand why your letters got 
fewer and farther between. How long has 
the affair been on hand? Did it begin early 
in the summer? Or did you start it in the 
train between Heerlsholm and Helsingeer, on 
your way to and from the factory? I only ask 


—you need not really trouble to answer. 
2II 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


I can see from your letter that you felt 
some embarrassment, and blushed when you 
wrote it. Every word reveals your state of 
mind; as though you were obliged to give 
some account of yourself to me, or were afraid 
I should take your news amiss. I have already 
drunk to your happiness all by myself in a 
glass of champagne. 

You can tell your young lady, if you like. 

Under the circumstances you had better not 
accept the invitation I gave you in my last 
letter ; although I would give much to see your 
good, kind face, rejuvenated, as it doubtless is, 
by this new happiness. But it would not be 
wise. You know it is harder to catch and to 
keep a young girl than a whole sackful of 
those lively, hopping little creatures which are 
my horror. | 

Besides, a new idea has occurred to me, and 
I can hardly find patience to wait for its 
realisation. 

Guess, Richard! ...I intend to take a 
trip round the world. I have already written 
to Cook’s offices, and am eagerly awaiting 


information as to tickets, fares, etc. I shall 
212 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


not go alone. I have not courage enough 
for that. I will take Jeanne with me. If I 
cannot manage it out of my income, I shall 
break into my capital, even if I have to live 
on a pittance hereafter. 

No—do not make any more of your gener- 
ous offers of help. You must not give any 
more money now to “women.” Remember 
that, Richard! 

The White Villa will be shut up during my 
absence; it cannot take to itself wings, nor 
eat its head off during my absence. Prob- 
ably in future I shall spend my time between 
this place and various big towns abroad, so 
that I shall only be here in summer. 

At the same time as this letter, I am sending 
a wedding present for your new bride. Girls 
are always crazy about jewellery. I have no 
further use for a diadem of brilliants; but 
you need not tell her where it comes from. 
You will recognise it. It was your first over- 
whelming gift, and on our wedding day I was 
so taken up with my new splendour that I 
never heard a word of the pastor’s sermon. 
They said it was most eloquent. 

213 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


I hope you will have the tact to remove 
the too numerous portraits of myself which 
adorn your walls. Sell them for the benefit 
of struggling artists; in that way, they will 
serve some good purpose, and I shall not run 
the risk of being disfigured by my successor. 

If I should come across any pretty china, or 
fine embroidery, in Japan, I shall not forget 
your passion for collecting. 

Let me know the actual date of the wed- 
ding, you can always communicate through 
my banker. But the announcement will 
suffice. Do not write. Henceforth you must 
devote yourself entirely to your role of young 
husband. 

You quite forgot to answer my questions 
about Lillie, and I conclude from your silence 
that all is well with her. 

Give her my love, and accept my affec- 
tionate greetings. 

ELSIE LINDTNER. 


P.S.—As yet I cannot grapple with the 
problem of my future appellation. I do not 


feel inclined to return to my maiden name. 
214 


THE DANGEROUS AGE 


“Elizabeth Bugge”’ makes me think of an 
overgrown grave in a churchyard. 

Well, you will be neither the first nor the 
last man with several wives scattered about 
the globe. The world may be a small place, 
but it is large enough to hold two “Mrs. 
Lindtners” without any chance of their run- 
ning across each other. 


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BY 
EDITH WHERRY 


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WILLIAM J. LOCKE 


The Usurper 


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SRS MRE A REPRE ST CPE ATE AT NEC TTR 


THE COMPLETE WORKS 
OF 


WILLIAM J. LOCKE 


**LirE Is A GLORIOUS THING.”°—W. J. Locke 





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The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne The Demagogue and Lady Phayre 
At the Gate of Samaria The Beloved Vagabond 

A Study in Shadows The White Dove 

Simon the Jester The Usurper 

Where Love Is Septimus 

Derelicts 


Idols 
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Where Love Is 


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BY 


DION CLAYTON CALTHROP 
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